


Resurrection: The Year After

by BeautyGraceOuterSpace



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Crew bonding, Disordered Eating, Doctor McCoy - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gap Filler, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jim needs a hug, Medical, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2017, Physical Therapy, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Radiation Treatment, Sick Character, Tarsus IV, mentions of tarsus, recovery fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-01-27 20:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12590052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/BeautyGraceOuterSpace
Summary: Post-Into Darkness. Jim has a long recovery period ahead of him. Coming back from the dead ain't easy, and putting someone back together after a trauma like that is no walk in the park. Thankfully, he has a pretty amazing crew to help him through it. My NaNoWriMo contribution for 2017.





	1. Day One: 2259.73

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, everyone, to my first ever attempt at National November Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short! Let's get a few things sorted first and foremost. 
> 
> For those who don't know, NaNoWriMo is a writing challenge in which participants challenge themselves to write 50,000 words during the coarse of the month of November. I've never attempted it before, but I decided I wanted to try, so I present to you "Resurrection: The Year After". 
> 
> This is a filler fic spanning the year post Into Darkness, and it will detail some of Jim's recovery period and the path to the 5 year mission. 
> 
> I have a rough schedule drafter that hopefully means I will post on the following days: 11/1, 11/4, 11/7, 11/9, 11/12, 11/15, 11/18, 11/21, 11/25, and 11/30. I may post earlier, as I see fit, or later if I absolutely have to. 
> 
> As always, an enormous thank you to ensanguind for reading and editing my babbling and helping me make it coherent. I don't know what I would do without your help. 
> 
> And here we go!

 

Darkness.

All around him, darkness. There was no source of light in his immediate vicinity, and he was alone. There was nothing. Memory and time meant nothing; he was separate from both. And yet, in the distance…

Voices.

But where? Clawing at the blackness that threatened to pull him back under, he fought for release. He led himself toward the voices, familiar but distant, wading through the dark and the silence. Another step, and…

Memories.

Slamming into him from all sides, a lifetime passed before him. Winona, Sam, Frank, Hoshi, Kodos, Bones, Spock, The Enterprise, and of course…

 

“I dare you to do better.”

* * *

 

He awoke with a start, inhaling deeply. His eyes, unfocused, darted wildly around the room, taking in his surroundings. Breathing heavily, he blinked hard and forced his gaze upward to the ceiling of what was clearly a hospital room. Sweat pooled on his forehead, his skin clammy as he slowly calmed.

Forcing himself to breath steadily, he swallowed hard; his throat ached. He was thirsty, _so_ thirsty, and he found that he couldn’t move his arms, but he was too tired to panic. Suddenly, he became aware of another presence in the room. Turning his head, he saw Bones approaching with a scanner, and God, he’d never been so happy to see one of those in his life.

Whatever had happened, if Bones was here, it couldn’t be too bad. At least he knew he hadn’t been captured or stranded somewhere, if Bones was here, too. Blinking rapidly to try to clear some of the lingering fog of sleep, he gazed tiredly up at him.

And then he remembered.

* * *

Len watched anxiously as Jim’s stats spiked, warning him of an imminent awakening, and he forced back the tears of relief that immediately welled in his eyes and caught in his throat as he rose from his seat and quickly hurried to the monitors at the side of the bed.

He was awake _._ Two long weeks of waiting, praying to any God that would listen, sleepless nights of tears and desperate attempts at healing that violated every code of ethics he had, but Jim was _awake._ It was worth it.

With some effort, he kept his breathing even. He made sure there was no immediate cause for alarm, and then grabbed a scanner from the nearby equipment.

He turned to face the bed again just as Jim opened his eyes. His panic was evident, but Len gave him a moment to sort himself out; no need to overwhelm him by swarming him the second he woke up. He kept an eye on the monitor, watching Jim in his periphery as he quickly got control of himself and sought out whoever was in the room with him.

Turning to face him with the scanner, Len was relieved to see recognition in his eyes.

His voice, thankfully, remained steady as he quipped, “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. You were _barely_ dead.”

And Christ, if that didn’t half hurt to say. Because he _had_ been dead; two weeks ago Scotty had entered medbay with tears in his eyes and a team with a gurney in tow and in his heart, Len had known. Even before he had unzipped the body bag, he had known what he would find.

Jim Kirk. Not breathing.

Knowing didn’t lessen the pain of _seeing_ , and though he knew it wasn’t medically possible he could have sworn he felt his heart breaking.

Then the tribble had purred.

The goddamn tribble had purred, and he had been frantic in his haste to preserve what he could in hopes that he could bring Jim back.

And here he was, staring at him with confusion and the minor traces of panic that always accompanied hospitals, and _alive_.

“It was the transfusion that really took its toll,” Len continued, forcing an air of normalcy because he knew that’s what would keep Jim the most calm upon waking up in an unfamiliar room in what was clearly a hospital with little to no idea how he had gotten there. This was assuming, of course, that all brain function had been preserved in time. Breath tight in his chest at the very idea, he said, “You were out cold for two weeks.”

Two weeks of hell. Day one Jim’s heart had stopped twice. Day two he had suffered seizure that hit at about 4AM. Day seven they had removed the oxygen mask. Day eight they had amped up the fluids as his body began replicating cells on it’s own again.

After that, it had been a waiting game. Waiting for him to wake up, to see if he was still their Jim.

Medically, Len had known that he would wake up. His vitals had remained steady since day nine, and the tribble that had brought this entire resurrection about was doing well in the care of a member of the medical staff who monitored it carefully. It had really only been a matter of time, but the waiting had taken it’s toll.

It was Jim’s brain function he was worried about. He had been technically dead for several minutes before they had initiated the cryo-sequence to preserve everything. Modern medicine being what it was, he was hopeful; but as with Jim’s awakening, he needed proof _._

Studying the monitors, he awaited a response, any response. _Please, kid._

Jim blinked at him sleepily, his confusion evident through the minor furrowing of his brow.

“Transfusion?”

Thanking his lucky stars, Len closed his eyes briefly as another wave of relief washed over him. Jim was awake. Jim was awake, and he was lucid and he could see, and hear, and speak, and he was _alive._

And oh, he wasn’t going to like this.

“Your cells were heavily irradiated,” Len said gently, confessing at least in some small part the extent of the damage that had been done.

He couldn’t tell Jim everything, not yet. He’d like to wait a few days to gently break the news that Jim had a long road ahead of him. There would be months of physical therapy, psychiatric evaluations, careful monitoring of food intake, and an extended hospital stay to boot; all things that Jim hated and, if he was honest, feared.

“We didn’t have a choice,” Len continued, apology evident in his tone. He quickly took Jim’s pulse, scanner hovering over his heart which beat steadily underneath.

It was a sound that would never be taken for granted again, not by any of them. Of that much, Len was sure.

Jim continued staring at him in confusion, exhaustion clear in his features. Breathing deeply, his heart rate spiked slightly as he asked, “Khan?”

_Can burn in hell for all I care._

“Once we caught him, I synthesized a serum from his… super blood.” Continuing his efforts to keep Jim calm, he joked, “Tell me, are you feeling homicidal? Power mad? Despotic?”

Jim smirked, the smallest quirk of his lips, but it may as well have been a blinding smile.

“No more than usual,” he quipped back, quietly, clearly grateful for his friend’s bizarre bedside manner. “How’d you catch him?”

Smirking right back, he replied, “I didn’t,” and moving back slightly, he allowed Spock to step forward from where he’d been lingering, watching the exchange and letting Len work.

Spock remained silent as Jim whispered, “You saved my life.”

And Len wasn’t a particularly prideful man but, _really_?

“Uhura and I had something to do with it, too, you know,” he snarked softly, rolling his eyes. He caught the side-eyed look Jim threw him with a glare. He’d missed their banter.

And then Spock jumped in with his logical Vulcan nonsense, “You saved _my_ life,” blah blah blah.

Jim was having none of that, and cut him off quickly, for which Len was thankful. Two weeks of nothing but Spock at all hours of the day and night, helping where he could and offering up what Len could only assume were meant to be words of comfort, but really came across more like lectures. The hobgoblin meant well, but Lord did Len need Jim to balance out the conversation now and again.

And then hell must’ve frozen over because the bastard just smirked that weird little smile of his and simply said, “You are welcome, Jim.”

Eyeing the lines of tension around Jim’s eyes, Len adjusted the levels of pain medication being fed into his bloodstream. After a few moments, the tension melted away, and Jim sent him a grateful glance.

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but his words caught in his dry throat and he coughed weakly. Len hurried around the bed to get him a glass of water, raising the straw to his lips slowly and letting him take a few sips before pulling the glass away and setting it aside.

Clearing his throat, Jim tried again.

“The ship?” he slurred, medication kicking in and, in his weakened state, dragging him quickly back to unconsciousness.

Len and Spock exchanged a glance, and Len nodded his permission for Spock to go ahead.

“The ship sustained significant damages and is in need of repair,” he explained, and Len knew he had purposely avoided mentioning the warp core as the primary source. “Repair time has been estimated at 12 months.”

Jim looked slightly disappointed at this, and Len was selfishly glad for the sleep that was overtaking him. He had no heart to tell him that he was in for just as long a recovery period, himself.

“An--- th’ crew?” he continued, eyes falling shut and taking longer to open with each blink.

“Safe,” Spock replied. “Thanks to you.”

Jim’s breathing escalated as he struggled to stay awake. Len stepped closer and took Jim’s hand in his own, clasping it firmly and subtly tracking his pulse the old fashioned way.

“B’nes---”

“Shh,” he responded, gently patting Jim’s forearm with his other hand, “Don’t fight it, kid. Go to sleep, we’ll talk later.”

Jim’s breath caught in a whimper and he tossed his head gracelessly to the side, trying to avoid unconsciousness.  

“Sleep, Jim, you’re ok.”

“B’t… th--” he croaked, barely awake.

“We’ll talk later, kid, I promise.” Then, just as much to himself as to Jim, “We’ve got time.”

_Thank the Lord, they had time._

Finally, Jim fell back into a deep sleep, head lolling slightly against the pillow. Len placed his hand gently back against the sheets, but the stiff positioning disturbed him, and he gently repositioned Jim’s hand against his stomach.

After a few moments, Spock spoke.

“This is an excellent sign of progress,” he said softly, gaze still fixated on Jim’s evenly rising chest.

It was a habit they would have to break sooner or later, now that Jim was going to be awake. Too often, they got caught up in just watching him breathe, taking reassurance in the fact that he was alive. He’d caught almost everyone at it at some point or another, just watching Jim breath without the continued assistance of machines. It had been one of their only comforts as they waited for him to come back to them.

“It is,” he agreed. “It’s a good sign, but he’s got a long way to go, yet.”

“How will he bear the news of his recovery plan?” Spock asked, watching Len putter around the room recording stats and readings.

“Not well,” Len admitted. “Jim--he doesn’t like hospitals or doctors much. Doesn’t trust ‘em.”

“Clearly an exception has been made. He showed few signs of distress upon awakening.”

_Yeah, didn’t he know it._

“Yeah, ‘cuz I was standing right there. He’s better than he used to be, but--” he paused. These were not his secrets to share. “Well,” he continued, lamely, “it was a long road getting to this point, believe me. And I’m gonna try my damndest, Spock, but I’m not certain I’ll always be able to be here, let alone be able to handle all of his treatment. A lot of it, sure, but there are things I’m not qualified to handle entirely; physical therapy, the psychosocial complications… and I _know_ they won’t let me handle his psych evals, when the time comes--”

He was getting ahead of himself. Jim had only just woken up, and he was talking about psych evals? Those were months away.

With a sigh, he dragged a hand down his face. In a momentary lapse of strength, he admitted quietly, “I just don’t want him to panic and set everything back.”

Spock watched him cautiously for several moments.

“What must be done to ensure that his feelings of safety are preserved?”

_Son of a bitch, there was a heart in there after all._

“Well,” he said, meeting Spock’s eye seriously, “if we can try to make sure someone he trusts is here as often as possible, that would probably help him, at least for the first bit here. He’s gonna be disoriented and a bit off kilter for a while yet.”

Spock nodded in agreement. “I will ascertain the schedules of the bridge crew and set a rotation into place. He will not be left unattended, Doctor.”  

Len let out a little laugh at the Vulcan’s eagerness to assist. “Y’know, that’s not a half bad idea, Spock...but not until he’s a bit stronger. For now, just let me handle it.”

“Doctor, you require rest to continue performing your duties adequately. For now, may it be assumed that the captain is in stable condition?”

“Yeah,” Len agreed. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but he’s stable.”

“And it seems reasonable to assume that he shall remain unconscious for the next several hours, at least?” Spock continued.

Reluctantly, Len admitted, “Yeah, he’s out for a good few hours at least.”

“Vulcan’s require less sleep than humans, as I am sure you are aware. Allow me to supervise him while you rest. I will alert you should he awaken at any time.”

With a sigh, Len glanced at the clock. He had been awake for 36 hours this time around, working long rotating shifts to ensure he was with Jim as often as possible. Even when he had slept, it had only been at the on call room down the corridor. Jim would be unconscious for at least 6 hours. He could afford to head home and sleep for a few hours, use his own shower, eat a decent meal…

But it felt wrong to just leave him.

What if he woke up anyway, defying medicine like he always did, and panicked? One minor setback could be catastrophic at this stage. They’d only just gotten him back; he didn’t want to lose him again.

But Spock had proven to be surprisingly helpful the past few weeks. He’d been around almost as often as Len himself had, in Jim’s room for all visiting hours when he wasn’t at a debriefing or other official meeting, and offering to help where he could.

“Tell you what,” Len said quietly. “I’ll go get some sleep if you promise to trade when I get back. Don’t think I can’t see that you’re tired, too, Spock.”

Spock faltered, caught off guard. “I admit, I have found less time to meditate recently than I am used to. My thoughts have not been conducive to peaceful reflection.”

That was about as close to an admittance of emotion as he as ever going to get from the Vulcan.

He knew Spock had been affected by this; they all did. Hell, seeing the state he was in when he dragged Khan back onboard the Enterprise had been enough to make Len double take, green blood oozing slowly from cuts on his face, knuckles split open, hair flying every which way, and a look of fury that could have stopped a hengrauggi dead in its tracks.

Len liked to poke fun at him, but he knew that deep down, Spock cared genuinely about his crew and his friends. He always had. The human side of him was stronger than he liked to let on, but it had been showing more and more lately. He was just as worried as the rest of them.

“He’s gonna be ok, Spock.”

Spock stared back at him, and Len could have sworn he saw desperate hope in his eyes.

“Alright,” Len said, checking and double checking Jim’s vitals to ensure the dosage was correct and that he would continue sleeping soundly. “We’ve gotta leave his side at some point. Whattaya say you and I go get some food? After that, I’ll go get some shut eye, and then in about 5 hours I’ll come relieve you and we can trade off. Sound good?”

“You are certain the captain will not awaken in our absence?” Spock asked.

“Positive. C’mon. We could both use a sit down and some food.”

Leading the way, he allowed the doors to open before gesturing for Spock to exit.

As he followed him into the hall, he made sure to grab a nearby PADD that was programmed to Jim’s monitors. It would alert him if anything changed while they were away.

Hesitating only briefly, and unable to fight the relieved smile that damn near split his face, he used it to send a message to the bridge crew.

_He woke up._

* * *

 

He should have known it would come back to bite him in the ass.

Five hours later, as promised-- having eaten a quick lunch with Spock, returned to his apartment, showered, and doing a solid four hours in his own bed, he made his way back to Jim’s room at Starfleet Medical.

And found the entire goddamn bridge crew waiting.

Uhura, Chekov, Sulu and Scotty were all crowded outside the closed door, Spock standing guard and denying them entry while reprimanding them in hushed tones. Len quickened his steps and made his way over to where they had all congregated, whispering a string of profanities under his breath.

“The captain is not in any fit state to receive so much company at this time,” Spock said, “Nor is he, at the moment, conscious. My apologies, I understand your eagerness to see him, but you will have to return at a later time. Dr. McCoy was very strict in his orders to--”

“We just want te see him,” Scotty interrupted. “Never mind if he’s conscious or not.” Sulu nodded agreeingly.

“And I understand your desire to ascertain for yourselves the state he is in, but as I said--”

“Look,” Len interjected, stepping beside Spock, standing between a particularly livid looking Uhura and the door, “he’s not ready yet. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that he was all clear for visitors, I just wanted to let ya’ll know that he woke up.”

“And since he woke up,” Uhura declared, crossing her arms over her chest, “he’s clearly doing better. So why can’t we just _see_ him?”

“She makes a wery good point, Doctor,” Chekov chimed in from over her shoulder.

“Nyota, I do not think it wise to disregard--”

“Nah, Spock, it’s alright,” Len said. They would have had to have this talk eventually, anyway. “Look,” he held up his free hand placatingly, the other holding the PADD down at his side. “He woke up, yes. For about seven minutes. It’s progress, and it’s a good sign, a _real_ good sign, but he is nowhere near where he needs to be.”

For the first time, they hesitated, worry clouding their features.

“He’s gonna be ok,” he reassured them, repeating his earlier words to Spock. “But we need to give him some time to recover. I don’t want to overwhelm him, and I don’t want him to have any setbacks.”

Their disappointment was plain to see.  

With a sigh, he relented. “When he’s able to stay awake longer than twenty minutes at a time, we’ll start doing individual visits, ok? Give him time.”

The PADD at his side chirped, and he quickly checked the screen. Jim was waking up again.

“I gotta get in there,” he announced to the group at large. Turning to Spock, he instructed: “Spock, keep them out.” As they protested his decision, he called over his shoulder, "Soon, just be patient!”

The door closed behind him just as Jim groggily opened his eyes.

“Hey, kid,” he said, making his way to Jim’s bedside and pulling one of the chairs lined against the wall closer. Jim tracked him with his eyes, waiting as he settled himself into the chair and checked the monitors with a cursory glance. He began their “waking up in medical” routine: “How ya feelin’?”

“Tired,” Jim admitted, swallowing against his dry throat with a grimace.

“Thirsty?” Len asked, already reaching for the glass he’d set aside earlier. Jim gratefully gulped at the water, but Len moved the straw out of his grasp after a few sips. “Not too much, kid. Don’t want it coming back up if we can help it.”

Jim looked resentful, but nodded. He knew better than most the methods of reintroducing sustenance to the body.

“Anything hurt?” Len continued with one last glance at the monitors. Content that Jim’s statss were good, he leaned back in the chair.

Jim shook his head in the negative.

“Do you need anything?” Final question. Jim knew this routine well, by this point.  

“How long do I have to stay here?” Jim asked, ignoring Len’s inquiry.

“Jim, I’m not sure now is the best time to--”

“Bones,” Jim insisted. “Please.”

Damn. He did not want to have this conversation now, but he knew Jim wouldn’t let him out of it now that it had begun. Inhaling sharply, he sighed heavily before speaking.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Jim, you’re gonna need some work. The radiation exposure was severe, and it did a lot of damage very quickly. You’ve presented symptoms of RFS-- Radiation Fibrosis Syndrome.”

He paused to gauge Jim’s reaction. Jim stared at him, no change in his expression. Cautiously, Len continued, allowing himself to detach behind medical professionalism enough to give Jim the rundown.

“Thankfully, a combination of Khan’s blood and modern medicine means we’ve staved off a lot of the nerve damage and lymphedema. You may feel a bit of numbness in your fingertips for a while, but it should be healed completely with a few more rounds of regen. There was a bit of radiation dermatitis on your hands, but the dermal regenerator took care of that while you were unconscious. The main concerns are bone density and muscular atrophy, at this point. Spasms are a pretty strong possibility as your muscles--”

“How much physical therapy do I need?” Jim asked.

Len hesitated.

“I can’t make an exact prognosis just yet--”

“Bones,” Jim cut him off, his tone flat. “I can barely move my arms. How much physical therapy do I need?”

Reluctantly, Len answered. “Couple months at least, kid. There’s only so much we can do with regen and hypos. We can rebuild ‘em, but the strength has to come from use and training.”

Jim closed his eyes briefly resigning himself to his fate.

“Hey,” Len said, placing a hand on Jim’s wrist to get his attention. Jim met his gaze, his frustration evident. “I know that this ain’t exactly an ideal situation. Hell, it’s pretty damn awful, if we’re being honest. But you have made so much progress already. I know you weren’t exactly awake to see it, but it’s true. And I am here with you, ok?” He gave Jim’s wrist a small shake in emphasis. “I am here with you for the duration. We are gonna get you through this. It’s gonna be hard sometimes, and sometimes you’re gonna want to punch me in the face, I’m tellin’ you that right now,” Jim smirked, a breathy laugh escaping him against his will. “And when you’re all healed up and runnin’ around like a maniac again, you can bet your ass that I’m going to tear you a new one.”

“Mhmm,” Jim hummed skeptically.

“Mhmm,” Len mocked him, rolling his eyes. “Just you wait, kid. You’ve given me more gray hairs than anyone my age should ever have, and you’re a hell of a lot more trouble than you’ve any right to be.”

“Sorry,” Jim said, no hint of apology in his tone.

“Brat,” Len groused, leaning back in his chair again.

Jim asked a few more questions about his treatment plan, not thrilled about the idea, but accepting of the fact that he’d need some help to recover from this. Len answered patiently each time, working hard to maintain the balance between optimistic and realistic.

After about ten more minutes, Jim started fading again. Groaning, Len hefted himself out of the low sitting chair and adjusted his pain medication, even as Jim protested that he didn’t want to sleep again.

“I know, kid, but you need it. It’s the best thing for your body right now.”

The drugs hit him faster this time around. Instantly, he was blinking heavily against sleep, and Len reseated himself in a silent reassurance that Jim wasn’t going to be left alone in a hospital.

“Bones,” Jim whispered, eyes already resting closed.

“Yeah, kid?”

“Th’nk you for bringin’ me back.”

“Anytime, kid.”

As sleep pulled him under, Len sighed softly to himself. So much progress in one day was inspiring, and he felt the weight that had been lodged in his chest the last two weeks easing a bit more with each passing moment. With a soft smile, he brushed Jim’s hair back from his forehead.

“You’re gonna be ok, kid,” he whispered. “We’re all gonna be ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about this chapter: 
> 
> "Two weeks of hell. Day one Jim’s heart had stopped twice. Day two he had suffered seizure that hit at about 4AM. Day seven they had removed the oxygen mask. Day eight they had amped up the fluids as his body began replicating cells on it’s own again." - This line is almost exactly quoted from an earlier fic of mine, "If He Should Die Before He Wakes", which was a filler one-shot about Bones' mental state prior to Jim waking up. I never meant to expand on it, but the opportunity presented itself here, and I took it! 
> 
> "'Yeah, ‘cuz I was standing right there. He’s better than he used to be, but--' he paused. These were not his secrets to share. 'Well,” he continued, lamely, 'it was a long road getting to this point, believe me.'"- This line is a direct reference to my previous work "You're A Casualty I Can't Forget", which details Bones finding out why Jim hates doctors and more about his past. 
> 
> Radiation Fibrosis Syndrome- This is a very real condition that presents following chemotherapy treatments for cancer. The radiation's effects on the body can lead to varying symptoms, including muscle atrophy and spasms, nerve damage, burns on the skin, bone fragility, and several other complications such as psychosocial complications. For the purposes of this story, I'm going to focus on muscular trauma resulting from radiation exposure and prolonged unconsciousness, but other symptoms will be discussed in varying detail.


	2. Day Ten: 2259.82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is finally allowed some visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who responded to chapter one! Your comments really do mean a lot! I was going to wait until the third to post this chapter, but I honestly couldn't wait. I'm very proud of this one. 
> 
> As always, thank you to ensanguind for reading and editing.
> 
> Without further ado...

It took him over a week to stop falling asleep every fifteen minutes, and it was annoying as hell. Not that he had much say in the matter; if Bones saw him so much as blink for a little too long he was pushing the good drugs and putting him back under. The constant intravenous stream had been removed, but hypos were just as effective.

Oh well. He probably would have just kept falling asleep on his own, anyway. He was so tired all the time. Obnoxious side effect of death, he supposed, or as he had been told to phrase it should anyone outside the bridge crew ask, “a side effect of radiation poisoning” and “a close call”. He had _not_ died, and Bones had most certainly _not_ played at God and brought him back.

This was going to be a bureaucratic nightmare if they screwed it up.

Things were slowly improving, though, in very, _very_ small ways. He was able to stay awake for around an hour at a time now, bully for him. He could lift his arms, but not higher than a few inches, and use them for very short stints of time. Bones said this was progress.

Jim didn’t comment.

He was doing an admirable job of keeping his trap shut, thus far. He wasn’t pleased with the situation, but it was better than being dead, and he didn’t really want to offend the few people that cared enough about him to bring him back in the first place by whining about how much he hated this.

The only people he’d really seen so far had been Bones, Spock, and the occasional nurse or doctor that poked around to help with his treatment, but since it was still mostly monitoring they didn’t do all that much. He had been unconscious for most of the regen treatments so far. For this, he was grateful.

His biggest issue so far, aside from the not being able to move or eat or do much of anything, really, was this _place_. He hated hospitals; not as much as he used to, but still. There were moments when he wanted to just up and run for it, and he hadn’t even been conscious for most of his time there. According to Bones, he had a long stay ahead of him yet.

And this was the first time he had woken up without someone hovering over him.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the hovering; it certainly helped to ease his discomfort when he woke up and either Spock or Bones was right there with him. He knew they wouldn’t let anything happen to him if they could help it. They wouldn’t let any unqualified doctors handle his care; Bones had hand selected the few other medical professionals that he allowed to assist, and he supervised all treatment carefully. He’d overheard Bones grumbling that they were “lucky he let them near him at all, bunch of idiots”.

Hell, he’d be lucky if Bones let _anyone_ else near him ever again; aside from Spock and himself, there had been no visitors.

Not surprising. There weren’t all that many people left. God knows where Winona was at any given time, like she’d bother to show up anyway, and he hadn’t seen Sam since the day he left him behind in Iowa. Family visits were out the window, and outside visitors would be permitted, “when you can keep your eyes open for more than five minutes at a time, you infant.”

But Bones and Spock couldn’t be everywhere at once, and they did have other responsibilities to attend to besides keeping his sleeping self company, which left this as one of the rare times so far he had woken up alone.

The first time it had happened, Bones had come extremely close to panicking. He had walked in, seen that Jim was awake, glanced around the room, found Spock nowhere in sight and rushed forward, checking monitors and babbling apologies until he realized that Jim was laughing at him, and perfectly fine. With a smack upside the head, he had immediately turned it back onto Jim, asking why he hadn’t “pressed the call button like a normal patient” and declaring that one of these days, Jim was going to give him an ulcer.

Once he had convinced Bones that he really was fine, and realistically, too tired to care that he had woken up alone, Bones had agreed to step back a bit, and more and more often he found himself waking up alone but quickly joined by either Bones or Spock as his monitors alerted them to his waking via PADD.

But he had woken up a whole two minutes ago already and no one was here yet.

Sighing, bored, he raised an arm which trembled pathetically with the effort, and laid a hand on the bed controls and aimlessly pushed buttons. The bed lifted and reclined. Up and down. Feet up. Head up. Flat. Up.

“ _What_ are you doing?”

_Oops._

Bones was stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and Jim realized he really had no idea how long he had been standing there.

“Uhhh--” Glancing at his hand on the controls he dragged the word out sheepishly.

“You know what, I don’t think I want to know.” With a fond sigh, Bones made his way to the bed and, slapping Jim’s hand away from the controls, set the bed to rights again: head up, the rest reclined.

“Just bored,” Jim said, sluggishly maneuvering his arm back to rest against his stomach with a wince, muscles aching with strain. He probably shouldn’t still be shocked to feel his ribs against his skin. It was nowhere near as bad as he’d had in the past, but it was enough to remind him that he’d lost muscle mass and weight during his 3 ½ week hospital stay. It was going to get worse before it got better, he knew. He’d worry about that later.

He must have been zoned out, because Bones softly said, “Jim? You ok?”

Turning his head to face him, Jim smiled. “I’m good,” he said. “Just imagining all the ways I’m going to drive you crazy being cooped up here. Not even a month in and you’ve already had it.”

“Don’t I know it, God help me,” Bones said, gazing upward in exasperation. “But just you remember, kid, I can and I _will_ get you back.”

Jim pursed his lips thoughtfully and nodded, remembering all too clearly from their academy days that Bones was more than capable of vicious payback when pushed enough. Not something he wanted to repeat anytime soon.  

“Duly Noted.”

“Ok,” Bones declared, “let’s go through the run down. You know the drill: how ya feelin’?”

“Ok,” Jim answered. “Bored.”

“I’ll see what I can do about that. Anything hurt?”

Jim shook his head, but catching Bones’ raised eyebrow and pointed look he realized his arm was still trembling minutely from playing with the buttons on the bed. With a sigh, he grit his teeth and flexed his hand, feeling the abused muscles contract painfully.

“A bit achy, but nothing major,” he insisted.

“Ok,” Bones said, checking the monitors for confirmation that Jim was being honest. “We’ve still got you on some pretty decent painkillers, but we’ve cut you back a bit to help you stay awake longer. If it gets more than a bit achy, you let me know.” This was clearly not a request, and Jim nodded. Final question: “Do you need anything?”

“A stiff drink and a spoon to start tunneling my way out of here?” Jim teased.

“Duly noted,” Bones threw back at him, sarcastically quoting his earlier statement. “Any legitimate requests?”

“When can I eat real food?” Jim asked quietly. He was not hungry, nor had he been at any point in his stay thus far. They kept him nourished with supplements and injections, and his body was well trained to ignore signs of hunger anyway, but it made him anxious not to go through the motions of eating real, substantial food.

“Not for a few days yet, I’m afraid,” Bones answered, and there was genuine apology in his tone. “Is that… gonna be a problem? I can see if we can--”

Jim shook his head. “It’s fine. I can wait a few days.”

“Are you sure? I can see about maybe a smoothie, or--”

“It’s ok, Bones. I promise.”

_I think._

“Ok,” Bones said. “You let me know if that changes.” Jim nodded again. “I mean it, Jim.”

“I know, Bones. I’ll keep you posted.”

Bones was watching him closely, eyes narrowed in contemplation. Finally, he spoke.

“Three days,” he said. “In three days, we’ll try some real food.”

Having a solid number helped more than Jim had realized it would, and he felt tension draining from his shoulders as he repeated the number to himself. Three days. And he knew Bones would keep his word; he knew why it made Jim anxious, and he wouldn’t lie to him. Three days.

“Three days,” he repeated quietly. “Deal.”

“I’m sorry, Jim, I know it’s--”

“Bones, it’s fine,” Jim said. “This is nothing.” Seeing the stricken expression on Bones’ face he realized that Bones must have thought that he was talking about Tarsus and he quickly amended, “I mean, compared to what’s coming, right? Physical therapy, and all of that.”

Bones smiled sympathetically. “’Fraid so, kid. But try not to worry about that right now. One day at a time.”

* * *

 

It was about twenty minutes later that Spock arrived, dressed in civilian clothes which was, Jim had to admit, a bizarre sight. Bones took his leave and left them to speak.

“How are things, Spock?” Jim asked once Spock had perched on the edge of the chair Bones had vacated.

“Everything is as can be expected, given current circumstances. And you? Are you feeling quite well?” Spock replied. Vulcan speak for, “Fine, and you?”

“Glad to hear it,” Jim said. “I’m alright, all things considered. I don’t envy you all the meetings. Are they letting up at all?”

He’d heard that each member of the bridge crew had been repeatedly summoned for debriefing and questioning regarding Khan, Marcus, his own status, and why they had entered Klingon space. Thankfully, the truth about Marcus’ betrayal was by this point, common knowledge among the remaining admiralty, and pardon had already been granted for their intentional breach of treaty. They had, after all, been following orders from a senior officer.

Forcing his thoughts back to the present, he tuned back into the conversation as Spock finished speaking.

“-- find that the frequency is decreasing steadily. I predict that this will be the final week of debriefings for the crew.”

Spock hesitated, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spock? What is it?” Jim asked, brows furrowing in concern.

“The admiralty,” Spock began, “is adamant in their requests to speak with you regarding all that has transpired. They are aware that you have regained consciousness, and though Doctor McCoy and myself are, as he so aptly put it, _stalling_ them--” Spock paused, meeting Jim’s eye gravely. “Without a senior officer’s assistance… specifically, without Admiral Pike to _‘run interference’_ , I’m not certain how long we will be able to delay the hearings.”

Jim’s breath caught in his chest. He tried whenever he was awake not to think too much about the circumstances that had led them to this point. Pike’s death was still a raw wound, and he was pretty sure that without the slight sedation the painkillers offered, he’d be a blubbering mess every time he thought of the man. He wasn’t sure his body would be able to handle that right now.

“So they’re gonna come knocking any day now?” Jim quipped, humorlessly. There wasn’t anything funny about this. He hadn’t been conscious long enough at any one time for them to solidify their story, and one slip up could cost them all their jobs. They could wind up court martialed under Article 107. They could go to prison.

“Doctor McCoy will not allow them to do so. We have time, Jim. I merely wished to inform you so that you would not be caught off guard should they decide to contradict his wishes.”

That was as close to a disdainful remark against Starfleet as anyone would ever hear from Spock.  Jim’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Boy, you’re really happy with them, aren’t you?” he asked sarcastically.

“On the contrary,” Spock replied evenly. “I find I am displeased by their disregard for the wellbeing of one of their captains, and the medical advice of one of their most senior medical officers.”

Jim smiled, and the smallest twitch of Spock’s lips, an amused gleam in his eye, told him that Spock was smiling as well.

If anyone had told him a year ago that Spock would be sitting at his hospital bedside cracking jokes-- and that had definitely been the Vulcan equivalent of a joke-- he would have laughed in their face. He and Spock had definitely become better friends throughout their time working together, but things had always felt a little awkwardly one sided; the Vulcan wasn’t experienced at expressing himself and, to Jim’s surprise, wasn’t used to having friends that cared about him. That was something they had in common.

Of course, he could have done without the whole dying bit to get to this point, but that was neither here nor there.

Stifling a yawn, he asked, “How is everyone else?”

“You need not entertain me, Jim. If you are tired, please, rest.”

“Nah, ‘s fine, I’m good,” Jim dismissed his concerns. “How is everybody?”

“Eager to see you, more so with each passing day. I believe you may soon be overrun with visitors.”

Tiredly, Jim smiled.

“That’d be nice,” he said relaxing a bit more into his pillows. Damn, when he got worn out it hit hard and fast.

“Doctor McCoy keeps them well appraised of your condition, but it seems they will not believe him until they see you themselves. I confess, I understand this all too well.”

“Mhmm,” Jim agreed, eyes falling closed.

There was the soft sound of a chair on the floor, and Jim jerked against the sleep overtaking him.

“Rest, Jim,” he heard Spock say quietly, but he could not respond. A gentle brush of fingertips against his face, and he felt an overwhelming sense of calm.

He surrendered to the darkness.

* * *

 

He awoke to the strange feeling that he was being watched. What else what new? But usually Bones and Spock at least made a little noise when they were around. Ok, mostly Bones. Ok, just Bones. Spock was silent as a cat sometimes and it was a bit unnerving.

But at least he would meditate or something most of the time Jim slept, not just sit there staring at him like Uhura was doing.

“Jeez!” he started, not having expected to make eye contact with anyone and finding her sitting far closer than expected. Closing his eyes and forcing himself to breath steadily and calm his racing heart, he murmured, “Warn a guy, would ya?”

“Sorry,” she replied, not at all apologetic. She leaned back from the bed and crossed one leg over the other, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin on her fist. A tad more sincerely, she added, “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yeah, tell that to Bones when he comes running in here having a fit because the monitors spiked,” he huffed, because it was only a matter of time until that happened.

3...2...1…

The door whooshed open and a frantic looking Len came barreling through.

“What happened?” he asked. Upon seeing Jim awake, seemingly fine, and smirking cockily at him, his expression clouded in exasperation. “What did you do?”

“ _I_  didn’t do anything,” Jim insisted. “ _She_ decided a heart attack was a nice way to wake someone up.”

Uhura snorted indignantly beside him, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “Captain Wuss here freaked out when he woke up and saw me. Not my fault you don’t know how to handle women, Kirk.”

“Hey, I will have you know--”

“Enough!” Bones interrupted, waving his hands in a desperate attempt to stop Jim from continuing that thought. “You,” he pointed at Jim, “stop it. No more spikes, you hear me?”

“I didn’t--” Jim protested.

“Ah-ah-ah!” Bones cut him off. “I don’t care. Just don’t do it. And you,” he pointed at Uhura, “be gentle with him. I mean it, Nyota, another spike like that and I’m kicking you out. Forget his heart, _my_ heart can’t take the stress.”

“Of course, Doctor McCoy,” Uhura agreed. Jim stuck his tongue out at her.

“Be good,” Bones continued as he turned to leave the room, and it was clear he was talking only to Jim. “Play nice. I’ll be back in forty minutes to up your pain meds, kid.”

Smirking, Uhura watched him go.  She turned to face Jim again just in time to see him wince as he tried, and failed, to sit up. Lips pressing together tightly, she quickly adjusted the bed so he was more upright. Spock must have lowered it when he fell asleep.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” she asked quietly, looking at him with honest concern.

Again, if someone had told him a year ago that Uhura would look at him with anything less than disdain, or mild tolerance at best, he wouldn’t have believed it. How far they had come.

“No,” Jim answered seriously. “Bones has me on some pretty good stuff right now. Apparently next week isn’t going to be much fun, but for now I’m alright. Just a bit sore.”

She looked relieved by that. As he spoke, he found her gaze drifting to his chin. She was clearly fighting back a laugh.

“What?” he asked. “Is there something on my face?”

“Yeah,” she replied with a smirk. “A dead animal. That’s quite the beard you have there, Captain.”

Oh, yeah. He did have a beard, didn’t he? He had noticed it a few times while he had been awake. Damn thing itched fiercely, but it wasn’t high on his list of priorities. At least, it hadn't been until she had brought it up; now he couldn’t stop thinking about how much it _itched._

“Ugh, I know,” he replied disdainfully. “Don’t remind me.”

“Itchy?” she teased, purposely scratching lightly at her own chin with her long fingernails.

“You,” he glared at her, “are a sick woman.”

“And you,” she replied without hesitation, “should not be surprised by this in the least.”

“Touché,” he laughed. _God_ , this stupid thing would not. stop. itching. He raised a hand weakly to scratch at his face, arm trembling violently. Embarrassed, he lowered it slowly back down to the blanket. Uhura’s expression had sobered immediately; her eyes remained fixed on his arm, pale against the blue coverings. “Sorry,” he said, knowing he had made her uncomfortable. “Not gonna be quite up to snuff for a while yet.”

She laid a hand gently atop his, meeting his eye with a look of understanding.

“No one expects you to be, Kirk. After what you did for us--”

“Uhura,” he said quietly, “I can’t do this yet. Please.”

“Of course,” she quickly responded, blinking rapidly. “Just… it’s good to see you awake.”

He smiled understandingly at her.

“It’s good to see you, too.”

“So,” she said, sitting up straighter and looking around the room. “Let’s get that thing off your face.” She stood and walked to the nearby cabinet, rifling through it for a moment and coming up empty.

“Wait, Uhura, you don’t have to--”

“I know I don’t, but I’m going to, so shut up.” She held up a finger in warning as she walked to the door.

“No, really, I’m fine--”

"You're an idiot and you look like a yeti. I’ll be right back.”

And then she was gone. With a sigh of resignation, Jim stared at the ceiling. It took less than five minutes for her to return, carrying a bowl of warm water, three small towels, some shaving cream, and a razor. He didn’t even want to know how or where she had acquired them.

"Alright,” she said, pulling a tray to her side as she sat beside the bed, pulling the chair up closer. She sat him up a little straighter, adjusting the bed, and he blushed at how helpless he actually was. She had to have seen his embarrassment, but she ignored it and kept right along with her self assigned task. Wetting one of the towels in the slightly steaming water, she gently placed it against his chin, wrapping and pressing the fabric against his bearded cheeks. With a soft sigh, he relaxed into her touch; he hadn’t realized how cold he was.

Dabbing gently, she removed the towel after a few moments, careful not to drip any water on the bed dressings as she worked. She put some shaving cream into her hands, rubbing them together lightly to work up the lather, and slowly, she began working it into the coarse hair on his face.

Not sure where to look, the close proximity making him slightly uncomfortable, Jim closed his eyes. The soft contact felt nice, comforting in a way he hadn’t known he’d missed. Gentle touch was a rarity in his life; Bones manhandled him a fair bit, and on occasion would gently support him if he was sick or injured, but very rarely did anyone else offer him physical contact, and never somewhere as intimate as his face.

“When my grandfather was d--sick,” Uhura began, startling Jim and making him jump slightly before relaxing again. Neither mentioned her slip. “I used to do this for him. He used to say, _‘Mtu mwenye ndevu ni mnyama bila kiburi--’_ ‘A bearded man is a beast without pride.’”

Jim chuckled.

“When he got sick,” she continued, steadying his chin with her hand as she laid the razor gently against his skin, sliding it through the lather and the hair and leaving a bare and blessedly itch-free patch behind, “he couldn’t take care of himself anymore-- but he always insisted on being clean shaven.”

Swiftly, yet carefully, she continued; so did her story.

“Twice a week, I would go and do this for him. He said he didn’t feel like himself when he had a beard. Each time, when I was finished, he would ask for hand mirror.”

Half of his face was finished, now. She tilted his head to reach the other side.  

“He’d look at his reflection, turn it back and forth, make sure that every spot was smooth, and then he’d look right at himself and say, ‘There you are.’ As if he had somehow gone missing because he had the start of a beard.”

With quick strokes over his upper lip, she finished with shaving, and gently removed the remaining foam with a fresh, warm towel. After a moment, she pulled the towel away.

As he opened his eyes, feeling much better for such a small thing, he smiled at her gratefully and realized that she had tears welling in her eyes.

“There you are,” she whispered with a watery smile. “Lost you for a bit there.”

“Thank you,” he replied, once he was certain his voice wasn’t going to break.

“Thank _you,_ ” she countered, taking his hand in both of her own. “I know you don’t want to talk about it yet, and we won’t, but… _thank_ you.”

There was a light, rapping knock at the door, and Uhura raised an eyebrow in question. Jim nodded, and she called out permission for whoever it was to enter.

The door opened, revealing Sulu, Chekov, and Scotty, each bearing a gift. Sulu smiled sheepishly at them.

“We weren’t sure if you were awake, sir,” he explained as they entered the room.

“‘Sir’,” Jim quoted back to him. “You guys know you can call me Jim, right? In fact, please _do._ We’re not on duty here, Sulu.”

Shifting his weight, he winced as he realized his pain meds were wearing off, a deep ache settling throughout his body. _Shit._

“Yes sir, Jim!” Chekov said excitedly, positively beaming at seeing his captain awake.

Rolling his eyes with a smile of his own, Jim watched as Uhura cleared the shaving supplies from the tray and went off to return them to wherever she had obtained them from.

The tray was immediately filled by the items the three men had brought. From Sulu, a card drawn by his daughter, and a leather bound book. From Chekov, a teddy bear with a garish “Get Well Soon” banner across its chest. And from Scotty...

“Soon as yer feelin’ up to it, laddie, you and I are gonna crack into this and have a proper toast.” He held the gleaming-- and illegal-- bottle high, turning it each way to catch the light.

“Thank you,” Jim said to the group at large, wincing as the ache turned into a dull throbbing pain, “But Scotty, maybe you should hold onto that one for me. I don’t think,” he gasped at a particularly sharp pain in his leg, “that Bones will appreciate illegal substances in his workspace.”

“What in _where_ now?” Bones called from the doorway; the door had been left open. Scotty quickly hid the liquor in his jacket.

“Clearly the lad’s delirious,” Scotty said with a wink to Jim. Jim smiled, but it quickly turned into a grimace as pain radiated through his back. Concerned, Scotty’s face fell. “Jim?”

Bones was watching him like a hawk, eyes scanning for the source of his discomfort. He breathed shakily in through his nose and out through his mouth. In, out. In...

“I’m ok, Scotty, just a little bit of-- ah!” He couldn’t hold back the cry of pain as the pain intensified further still, shooting pains running up and down his arms and legs and spine. The alarms on the biobed went off, shrill and disorienting as his heart rate escalated and his pain levels skyrocketed. He tried to curl in on himself, and _fuck_ if that didn’t make it hurt _more,_ muscles unable to handle the strain. He felt himself falling forward, unable to support his torso.

“Move, _move_!” he heard Bones demand. Strong hands caught him, and arm wrapping across his chest and pulling him back against the bed, which began lowering almost immediately. Clenching his teeth, he tried desperately to breath through the pain, which was not abating.

He heard the hiss of the hypo before he felt it, the spasming pain in the rest of his body overshadowing the minor prick of the needle in his neck. As the pain finally began to ease, he became aware that he was gasping, harsh panting breaths as his fists clenched in the sheets. There was a hand in his hair, brushing it back from his sweaty forehead and repeating comfort as he waited out the lingering hurt.

“Shh, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine, kid.”

“We,” he panted, “have to s-stop meeting like-- _ahh_ \-- like this.”

Bones huffed a breath of laughter through his nose, never ceasing his soothing brush of Jim’s hair.

“You’re telling me,” Bones replied, pressing gently on his shoulder when another stab of pain caused him to arch slightly from the pillow. “Easy, kid, easy. You’re having some muscle spasms--”

“No s-shit,” Jim replied with a whimper.

“--but the drugs should be kicking in any minute, here. You’re gonna fall asleep any second, Jim, it’s ok.”

Under Bones’ arm, he caught a glimpse of Sulu, Scotty, and Chekov, standing against the wall with varying levels of concern and fear on their faces. Uhura stood in the doorway, looking stunned.

“Sorry,” he croaked as the medicine pulled him under. “Sorr---”

* * *

 

With a sigh, Len stepped back from the bed, rubbing at his temples in a weak attempt to ease the sudden tension.

That had been bad, and far too sudden. The muscle relaxers they had Jim on in combination with the painkillers had so far been effective at holding off any spasms. He had come to re-up Jim’s meds anyway, when they had hit. Weaning him off of them was going to be hell.

For the first time, he stopped and realized that Jim’s facial hair was gone. He glanced at Uhura. “You do that for him?” he asked quietly, with a nod towards Jim’s head.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Thank you. That was very kind of you. He hates having a beard,” he said absently, thoughts still racing as he took in the readings on the monitors and picked up a PADD, logging the date, time and event.

After several tense and silent minutes, he turned, and realized they were all still staring at him, rigid and confused.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly to the three men that he had shoved aside in his haste. They didn’t respond. He caught their questioning glances, and with a sigh, said, “He’s alright. His meds wore off. It wasn’t fun for him, but he’ll be alright. A fair bit more tired tomorrow, I’d reckon but--”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Sulu cut him off. “I’m sorry we didn’t realize sooner.”

Len got the feeling he wasn’t just apologizing for today.

“Well,” he said, tiredly. “Why don’t ya’ll clear out of here and go get some rest. I’ll let you know when he’s up for visitors again and-- what are you doing?”

Uhura had finally left her post in the doorway, retrieving one of the chairs that lined the walls and pulling it to Jim’s bedside where she sat, taking his hand in her own and beginning a repetitive motion with her thumb against his palm.

Without looking up, she murmured, “I’m staying right here.”

“Uhura, you don’t need to--”

“I’m staying,” she said, a bit more firmly.

“Aye,” Scotty chimed in, grabbing a chair of his own and settling in next to her. “When visiting hours are up, then we’ll go. We only just got him back,” he continued. “We aren’t keen on leavin’ him again so soon.”

Sulu and Chekov followed suit, placing chairs of their own along-side the other side of the bed.

“We will be wery quiet,” Chekov said in a hushed tone. “But we want to stay with Jim, please, doctor.”

Hell, he wasn’t gonna argue with that. Taking the chair that had already been set near the head of the bed, he joined them.

For hours, they talked quietly, or sat in silence, enjoying each other’s company and the company of their captain, unconscious or not.

In the early evening, Spock arrived and joined them without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> Article 107- Article 107 is a current punishable military offense, wherein a person, regardless of rank, intentionally makes a false official statement regarding duty. It is different from perjury, because the statements can be made outside official judicial hearings and still bear consequences. The maximum penalty can include dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of pay, and up to five years imprisonment. 
> 
> Muscle Spasms as a Result of RFS- I touched on this briefly in the first chapter, but muscle spasms are a common side effect of Radiation Fibrosis Syndrome. The combination of weakened muscles and nerve activity can lead to extremely painful muscle contractions outside the body’s control. Again, there are a myriad of other symptoms, but I believe that the combination of Khan’s blood and regenerator treatments would stave off a fair bit of the damage, leaving Kirk with fewer, but still severe, side effects from the radiation.


	3. Days Thirteen-Sixteen: 2259.85-2259.88

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim tries reintroducing his body to food. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for the continued response to this story! I'm having an absolute ball writing it and hearing your thoughts! 
> 
> A note about the schedule: I realize that I am now a fair bit ahead of the posting schedule I had initially laid out. A combination of excitement and scheduling issues later in the month have led me to the decision that I should try to be a bit ahead of the game with word counts, and as a result, you get chapters sooner than planned! Win/win! 
> 
> As always, thank you to ensanguind for listening to me theorize, discussing research, and editing the final draft.

True to his word, Bones had let him try eating some real food-- broth, an apple, and a few crackers-- three days after he’d begun receiving visitors. The soup had smelled heavenly, and his stomach had rumbled appreciatively at the mere sight of the apple, the sweet skin glistening invitingly. He’d managed about half the soup and a few slices of the apple, shakily but determinedly raising the spoon to his lips again and again, before he’d had to concede defeat.

It wasn’t _nearly_ as pleasant coming back up.

He’d lasted all of about six minutes before saliva had begun pooling in his mouth and he’d known what was going to happen. With a murmured, “I’m gonna be sick”, an emesis basin was shoved under his nose and sure enough…

Tears were streaming down his face against his will; his eyes always watered horribly when he threw up. Unable to do much more than clutch the basin to his chest with trembling hands and try not to work his screaming abdominal muscles any more than he absolutely had to, he spat weakly into the bin as the most recent round of retching finally ended, leaving him trembling and panting in exhaustion.

And, like any other time past the age of thirteen that he’d been unable to keep food down, drowning in an overwhelming wave of guilt he couldn’t control. He _hated_ wasting food.

“I’m sorry,” he coughed, voice hoarse and throat raw from the acidic bile.

“There is no need for apology, Jim,” came the steady voice from his bedside. “You are ill; this is out of your control.”

Spock was seated stiffly on the edge of his chair, wanting to help but uncertain as to how. Bones had reluctantly run off a few minutes prior to fetch the necessary equipment for a saline drip, worried that Jim was going to dehydrate himself when it became apparent that his body was now rebelling even against water. Jim wasn’t thrilled about going back on an IV, but at this point Bones had made it pretty clear he didn’t have a choice.

“God,” he huffed, still fighting to catch his breath. He wiped a hand across his mouth, immensely thankful yet again that Uhura had shaved his face a few days prior. Dropping his hand heavily onto the sheets, he fell limply against the pillows. He had gotten stronger over the last week and a half, and was awake more often, but he still tired easily. Holding himself upright as he gagged and heaved had left him sore and tired.

“Are you going to be ill again?” Spock inquired after a moment, watching Jim carefully.

Eyes closed, Jim shook his head. He didn’t have anything left. Wasteful. Frustrating.

Swallowing thickly, he grimaced at the taste. Gross.

“Allow me,” Spock said, rising and retrieving a glass of fresh water, which he handed to Jim. Gratefully, Jim took it, swishing a sip around around his mouth to help clear the awful aftertaste of sick. He spat the mouthful into the basin, unwilling to risk vomiting again.

Spock removed the bile filled basin and the glass from Jim’s loose grasp in one fluid motion. He turned and placed both on a tray near the door for removal from the room, pressing the non-urgent call button as he returned to his seat. Jim had yet to use it.

After washing his hands in the sink against the far wall, Spock returned to his post.

“I’m sorry, Spock. You didn’t have to--”

“It is no trouble,” Spock insisted. “Is there anything else you require?”

“No, Spock, I’m--”

“Ok,” Bones called from the doorway, wheeling a cart tray filled with supplies towards the bed. “Lemme see your arm, kid.”

“Bones,” Jim began, hearing the hint of a whine in his own voice and wincing.

“Nope,” Bones barked sternly. “Non-negotiable. I don’t want something as simple as dehydration causing another fit like we had the other day. Your body needs water, Jim, I’m sorry.”

“Forgive me, Captain, Doctor McCoy,” Spock interrupted. “I will return momentarily.”

His shoes clicked softly on the floor as he took his leave.

“Arm,” Bones demanded. “C’mon. It’ll be done with before you know it.”

With a resigned sigh, Jim offered up his left arm, palm up. Pulling on a pair of gloves, Bones prepared the necessary equipment. Jim turned his gaze away from the process.

IVs made him uncomfortable; he hated the idea of something being literally stuck under his skin. He had far too vivid memories of being held and strapped down, needles jabbed into his skin and left for hours at a time and himself, unable to move or do a damn thing about it. The medical team that assisted in his recovery post Tarsus may have meant well, but they had been inexperienced and he had been broken in more ways than he could count. He wondered sometimes if they’d done more harm than good, ultimately.

Bones knew; Jim trusted him not to put him through anything he didn’t absolutely have to endure. He just didn’t want to watch it go in.

“Ok, kid, ready?” Bones asked. Jim nodded, eyes fixed on the floor directly ahead and to the right of the foot of his bed. Secretly, he was glad Spock had left. It was embarrassing to be so uncomfortable about something so stupid. “I’m gonna wrap your arm, alright?”

Bones gently took hold of his arm, lifting it slightly and wrapping the tourniquet around his bicep, slipping a finger under the band momentarily to ensure that it wasn’t too tight. Maneuvering his arm gently to the side, Bones lowered the bed railing and let Jim’s hand hang limply over the side for a few moments.

“Alright, just gonna let the blood flow down for a minute, help me find a vein easier,” Bones said quietly. Jim nodded again; Bones was always good about letting him know why he was doing what he was when it came to medical stuff. It helped keep him calm.

After a minute, Bones lifted his arm back onto the bed, and with a murmured, “Cold,” began swabbing the back of his hand with an alcohol wipe to sterilize the injection site.

“Little stick,” and Jim felt the needle pierce his skin, the slight uncomfortable tautness of a catheter line being inserted.

“And there we are,” Bones said in satisfaction, laying some medical tape over the catheter to hold it in place and gently removing the tourniquet. There was a knock on the door and a nurse appeared, a petite brunette woman Jim remembered seeing a few times before. She must be responding to Spock’s call. “Ah, Darlene, could you do me a favor and bring that pole over here?” Bones asked, nodding towards the corner where an IV stand stood.

“Of course, Doctor McCoy,” she responded with a smile, making her way over. “How are you feeling today, Captain Kirk?”

“I’ve had better days,” he said with a sheepish smile of his own, eyes flicking to the basin that still sat on the tray by the door. She followed his line of sight, and her expression folded in concern.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. After guiding the IV stand over to the head of the bed, she made her way back to the door. “I’ll just get this out of your hair, shall I?” She removed the basin and the glass with a wink, and the door closed behind her.  

Bones, meanwhile, had disposed of the needle and removed his gloves, noting the time and date on a PADD and hanging the bag of saline solution from the pole where it began a steady drip. drip. drip. into Jim’s veins. Jim’s file must be a hundred pages long at this point.

“Alright,” Bones declared, still scanning the PADD as he made notes, “we’re gonna leave that in for the time being. We’ll monitor you to make sure you stay hydrated, and if you’re able to keep water down, we’ll take it out. Ok?”

“Yes, Doctor McCoy,” Jim said mockingly, offsetting the words with a smile so Bones knew he was kidding.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bones grumbled as he retrieved a stress ball from the tray he had brought in. Pressing it firmly into the hand that didn’t have tubing flowing from it, he instructed, “Do your exercises.”

Jim hardly called squeezing a stress ball repeatedly ‘exercise’, and when Bones had first suggested it he had been skeptical at best, but he was surprised to find that his grip strength had improved since he’s started. He was able to use his arms more, as well. He’d take whatever he could get.

Bones had outlined his treatment plan for him and, for all that he said Jim was progressing well, it was going to take him forever to get back on his feet again. Each step forward was contingent on the success of the step before, and so far his track record wasn’t great. Keeping food down was a major step, and he couldn’t even do that right.

The idea of trying to eat again with the strong possibility that it would just come right back up was daunting, both physically and mentally. He had trained his body better than that, and for it to be rebelling against him like this was frustrating.

“Alright,” Bones said, sitting down heavily on the left side of the bed, where the railing was still lowered. “What’s buggin’ you? You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

Jim scoffed. “Just--frustrating. You know I don’t like--” he trailed off as he clenched the stress ball tight in his fist, gesturing vaguely with his other hand, but careful not to pull too much on the IV.

Bones stared at him expectantly.

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Jim asked after several moments, already knowing the answer.

“We’ve talked about this,” Bones said quietly. “I think it’s important that you be able to at least acknowledge _why_ this stuff gets to you.”

With an exasperated sigh, Jim growled, “Throwing up makes me think of Tarsus.”

“Tarsus, or right after?” Bones asked calmly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Damnit, Bones knew him too well.

“Both,” he finally admitted, dropping his gaze to the stress ball that expanded through the gaps between his fingers as he clutched it.

God, he had puked _so_ much on that rescue ship. They had kept forcing food down his throat when his body wasn’t ready for it, and it had kept coming back up. After seeing so many starve, and as pissed off and hurting as he had been, their disrespect for their resources had been astounding to him. Why they kept wasting their food and their time on him, he hadn’t understood. Nutritional supplements would have been fine to get his body healthy enough to tolerate more, but they had pushed for too much too soon, and---

“I’m not going to do anything without telling you, Jim,” Bones insisted, trying to meet his gaze. “Unless it’s an emergency or you’re unconscious.”

“I know that, Bones, that’s not--”

“I know you know, but I’m gonna say it anyway,” Bones drawled. “I know this part is hard for you. I’m glad you gave it a shot, but I have to tell you, I think it’s gonna take a few more tries to get it right. But we need you to keep trying until we do. So--” he continued over Jim’s attempts to protest, “we’ll start with less next time. Do you think that will help?”

“Maybe,” Jim consented. “God, just… this stuff pisses me off, Bones. Why does this bother me so much? Everything is fine. I know you’re not going to do-- and it’s not like there’s a shortage of resources in San Francisco, so why does it… _ugh_!”

With a growl of frustration, he threw the stress ball across the room, watching as it bounced off the far wall and rolled lopsidedly back towards them.

“You don’t have to justify it, Jim. You feel how you feel. As far as I’m concerned, with the shit you’ve been through you’ve got every right to be more than a little miffed. So long as you keep trying, that’s alright by me.”

Pushing off the bed’s side, Bones walked across the room and, with a stifled groan, bent down to retrieve it. Returning it to Jim, he flicked him lightly upside the head.

"Next time you wanna play catch, warn me first.”

“Will do,” Jim murmured. “Sorry, Bones.”

“No harm, no foul,” Bones replied, perching against the bed once again and handing the ball back to Jim. “’sides, it’s nice to see you getting your strength back.

* * *

 

“The admiralty are growing more insistent,” Spock said quietly as he sat in one of the burgundy armchairs across from McCoy in the doctor’s private office.

McCoy snorted with a humorless laugh, watching the amber liquid in his cup ripple and swirl as he gently rotated the glass. “Yeah, don’t I know it... uppity bastards. They’re callin’ twice a day now.”

Jim had been asleep when Spock had arrived from his most recent meeting with the higher ups at Starfleet; all the better. He had asked for a private word with the doctor as soon as he was able.

“I have informed the captain of their intentions to speak with him as soon as they are able.”

“You _what?_ Damnit, Spock,” McCoy exclaimed, setting the glass down on his desk with a firm _thud._ “We talked about this! Don’t put anything else on him, not right now. He’s got enough to focus on just trying to get back on his feet without worrying about being hauled into questioning about stuff he wasn’t even conscious for!”

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Doctor, it was not my intention. But you and I both know that the captain has an unparalleled ability for attracting trouble. I merely thought it prudent to keep him informed in case the admiralty decide to disregard your medical advice rather than to have him find out because of their sudden arrival.” He stood and walked to the window overlooking the city below, clasping his hands behind his back as he watched the passersby. “I believe the time may be coming when they will not wait any longer.”

McCoy sighed heavily behind him, and when Spock turned to face him again, he found the doctor with his head in his hands, elbows resting on the desk.

“You’re right,” the doctor conceded. “You’re right, they ain’t gonna wait much longer. But we haven’t had time to go over it enough, yet. Damnit, we gotta make sure he’s word perfect on this, or we’re all in deep.”

“The captain has always shown a remarkable loyalty to his crew and an impressive resilience under stressful circumstances. I see no reason to believe this will be any different.”

“I know that, Spock, but have you thought about the situation at all?” he questioned in frustration, standing abruptly. “He’s tired, and he’s in pain-- we’ve been lowering his pain meds steadily and he’s a damn good faker, but he is-- and he has to start retraining his body to do basic things like eating and walking. He still won’t talk about what happened with any of _us_ , and the admiralty want to come waltzin’ in and interrogate him?” With a sigh, he finished his tirade. “I don’t see that going well, do you?”

Expression never faltering, Spock met McCoy’s eye and responded, “I never implied that I did, Doctor. I simply stated that Jim is now aware of their intentions, and it would be wise of us to begin preparing him for the imminent interview. Do you not agree that it would be better for all that he not be caught unawares?”

“Spock,” the doctor replied desperately. “He’s not ready.”

“Then I suggest we prepare him.”

Closing his eyes, McCoy finished his drink in one pull, replacing the glass on the wooden surface and dragging a hand down his chin.

“Shit.”

* * *

Two days later after his first attempt at eating, Jim hit a bit of a breaking point. In addition to the stress ball, Jim had also begun doing various leg exercises a few days back. Thanks to regen units, a lot of the atrophy that had been caused by the radiation had been taken care of, his muscles carefully strengthened and effectively put back together, a process sped along by the assistance of Khan’s blood. His legs, though, had come into repeated contact with the source of the radiation itself, and the strain on his arms and legs as he had climbed up had sped up the effects of the exposure, increased blood flow and oxygen carrying the toxins directly to those areas, and causing lingering weakness and instability.

In short, trying to walk was a bitch.

He had begun standing for short amounts of time-- _very_ short-- with help, but at the moment there was no one else around. Bones had said they were going to take it one step at a time, no pun intended. A week of leg exercises and brief periods of standing and sitting, getting his legs used to the repetitive movements and building the muscles back up with practice. Then, maybe a week later, they’d start doing shorts walks. Well, that was a week away.

He was tired of being stuck in a bed all the time, and now that he was awake more often than not, he was getting anxious.

He was grateful, at least, that everyone had taken pity on him and provided him with an extra set of scrubs to wear rather than the traditional open backed hospital gowns once he started moving a bit, but it provided very little cushioning when he cautiously rose from his bed, placed his feet on the ground, pushed off, and landed flat on his face.

 _Shit_ , that hurt. 

The alarms on the biobed went crazy, shrieking and blaring as it could no longer read his heartrate. Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, he heard the door swish open and the pounding of feet running towards him, and braced himself to receive the full and unhindered wrath of Doctor McCoy.

Instead, small hands wrapped around his shoulders, helping him ease himself back upright, and a worried voice by his ear asked, “Jim! Sir, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Chekov,” he replied with a grunt of exertion as, between the two of them they hauled him back to his feet. “Guess I’m not quite steady on my feet, yet.”

He murmured his thanks as the doors once again opened, revealing Bones in an absolute frenzy. He stopped suddenly, seeing Jim seemingly fine, but out of bed entirely.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jim called, raising his voice to be heard over the volume of the still screaming alarms. “I’m fine. I forgot about the monitors.”

Scowling, Bones slammed his hand against the button to silence the alarms. Jim felt some of the tension leave his shoulders as the room quieted.  

“He had fallen,” Chekov piped up cheerfully, slinging one of Jim’s arms across his own shoulders, “but everything is alright! We are just going to go on a small walk, da?” Smiling brightly, with all the youthful exuberance that being eighteen years old offered, he continued, “There is a saying in Russia: ‘ _Beris' druzhno, ne budet gruzno.’_ If all of us take hold of it together, it will not feel so heavy. So-- we work together!”

For a moment, Bones looked absolutely livid. Jim couldn’t blame him; he honestly hadn’t been thinking about the sensors, and the fact that if he left the bed without clearance it would register him as flatlining.

He must have seen the genuine apology in Jim’s expression, though, because his own softened slightly, and with mild irritation, he said, “For chrissakes. Next time, _ask_.”

“Will do. Sorry, Bones,” Jim replied with a weak salute, grateful for Chekov’s help in supporting his weight.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Bones said, making his way to the cabinet of supplies against the wall. With practiced ease, he retrieved a monitoring bracelet and slapped it onto Jim’s wrist, activating the pairing sequence that linked it to the monitors. Immediately, Jim’s stats appeared on screen again, the bracelet feeding his heart rate and other information directly to the systems. Bones moved to mirror Chekov on Jim’s left side where he clasped his hand tightly in his own, careful of the IV, and used his other hand to take hold of the IV pole.

“ _My mozhem sdelat' eto_!” Chekov exclaimed in excitement, shifting his own position to mimic the doctor’s and grasping Jim’s hand firmly, letting him take more of his own weight.

“You’re staying?” Jim asked.

“Did you honestly think I’d let you have unsupervised physical therapy? Damn, kid, you must’ve hit your head when you fell.” Bones grumbled.

“Of course I didn’t think that,” Jim insisted with a cocky grin. “I know better. I just didn’t think I’d get _caught.”_

“Brat,” Bones mumbled, rolling his eyes. “Well, hotshot, you wanna walk? Let’s walk.”

And then Bones was pulling him forward on one side, Chekov on the other and _shit,_ he had not thought this through well enough because his legs were already aching with the strain of standing and they wanted him to _move?_

Physically unable to resist their gentle pulling, he took a stumbling step forward, knees knocking and almost buckling beneath him as he trembled, but he didn’t fall. They didn’t let him fall.

“Push against our hands, Jim, sir,” Chekov gently coached, meeting Jim’s responding pressure with resistance and allowing him to ease the weight on his legs slightly by taking it in his arms.

“Good, Jim, another step,” Bones said quietly from his other side.

Part of Jim bristled at the praise; it was just walking, he didn’t need to be babied like this. But another part of him was grateful for  it, motivated by the gentle encouragement to try a little harder, to go a bit further, and so he did.

He kept putting one foot in front of the other, taking step after trembling step. Twice he nearly stumbled, but they didn’t let him, firm hands supporting him until he could support himself and encouraging him to take, “another step, you’re doing so good, kid.”

And so it went, step by step, until he realized they had made it around the room.

His knees stung where he had fallen. His muscles protested the strain of the movement with waves of pain. 

Panting heavily, he said, “Again.”

And so the process began anew.

They made it around the room three more times before, shaking and sweating, he gasped out, “I can’t--I can’t do anymore, I’m sorry,” and, shutting down his apologies, they helped him back to the bed where he sat heavily and flopped sideways against the pillows.

But neither of them looked disappointed in least. In fact, they were beaming from ear to ear, and Chekov was damn near shaking with excitement.

After catching his breath for a few moments, Jim looked at them in confusion.

“What?” he asked, glancing between the two of them.

“Oh for--” Bones huffed, exasperatedly, before hauling Jim into a more upright position and hugging him fiercely. Jim quickly wrapped his own arms around Bones to steady himself from the sudden movement, and Chekov began patting his shoulder firmly in a congratulatory way.

After thumping him solidly on the back, Bones pulled back, taking his face in his hands and shaking him slightly as he said, “Kid, you _walked!”_

“Uh-- yeah for like two minutes,” he scoffed.

“So what? That’s _weeks_ ahead of schedule, Jim, and you did it!”

“Oh no, what did he do now?” Uhura asked from the doorway, smirking and crossing her arms as she shook her head in fond annoyance at whatever Jim had managed to get himself into. Scotty, Sulu and Spock trailed behind her slightly, having come to say hello before visiting hours ended for the day.

“Why does everyone always assume that I did something bad?” Jim huffed in annoyance, trying unsuccessfully to pry Bones’ hands from his face. Bones stopped him by wrapping an arm around his neck in a loose headlock instead.

“Because you almost always do,” Bones quipped.

“But not this time!” Chekov chirped.

“So what _did_ he do?” Sulu asked with an amused smile, making his way into the room to lean against the wall.

“He _walked!”_ Chekov announced, throwing both fists into the air, bouncing on his toes from the sheer joy of it all.

For a moment, there was absolute silence and then…

“That’s the way, laddie!” Scotty whooped, launching himself towards the bed and ruffling Jim’s hair enthusiastically where he still struggled against the doctor’s grip.

“Hey, watch the hair it’s bad enough without--”

“That’s amazing!” Uhura said, jumping onto the bed behind him and wrapping her arms around his torso in a tight hug.

“Ok, ok, yes, _thank you_ , I get it,” he said, trying for a scowl but unable to resist her infectious enthusiasm. “Huge accomplishment.”

“What do you know,” Sulu said, laughing and applauding lightly as he, too, stepped forward. “Defying the odds again!”

“Oh my _god--_ will you _please_ let go of my head?”

Even Spock cracked a small-- but genuine-- smile, lips quirking upwards at the edges, as he watched their antics and Jim’s continuing struggles.

“A little help here, Spock?” Jim called from amidst the sea of arms surrounding him.

“Forgive me, Captain,” Spock replied with the feigned nonchalance of playing at ignorance,  “but you do not seem to be in need of assistance.”

“You, Mr. Spock,” Jim laughed, pushing weakly at the doctor’s arm, still looped around his neck, “are a traitor.”

“And you,” Uhura said from behind him, “need a shower.”

“Are you offering to help with that?” Jim said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Not on your life, mister,” she said with a playful shove of his shoulder. “And it would be way too easy to kick your ass right now, but keep trying.”

Three gentle raps on the door alerted them to the nurse waiting for permission to enter, and they all finally released their holds on him, letting him sit back against the pillows and pull his sore legs onto the bed. Crossing his legs with some effort, he called for her to enter.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said, entering the room with a small tray, “but visiting hours will be ending soon, and Captain Kirk needs to eat.”   

Jim’s mood soured. He desperately did not want to repeat the events of earlier in the week, puking his guts out again and again, unable to prevent his body from protesting the reintroduction of food to his system. Glancing around at his crew, he made a split second decision.

“They can stay,” he said, “if they want to.”

And apparently that was all they needed to hear, because each and every one of them pulled up a chair and sat around his bed as the nurse delivered the tray-- broth, and a bit of bread and a glass of water-- to him.

The nurse took her leave. Jim stared at the small bit of food. He could do this.

But no one else was eating.

He couldn’t do this.

This was a mistake.

“Hold on a minute,” Bones said, rising from his chair and making his way towards the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Bones returned quickly, and began distributing food to each crew member where they sat-- a sandwich for Scotty, a salad for Spock, and small, warm meals for Uhura, Chekov and Sulu.

“I don’t know about ya’ll,” he said, reseating himself with an apple in hand, “but I could sure use a bite.”

Calling out their thanks, they each tucked into their own food. Bones caught Jim’s eye with a wink. Jim smiled gratefully in return.

“So, Sulu, did you find out if you're teaching while we're grounded?” Uhura asked, looking to Sulu expectantly.

“Uh, yeah; actually,” said Sulu, catching on quickly to the distraction tactic. “They want me to assist with the flight simulators and advanced piloting class.”

“Aye, that will be good for the cadets,” Scotty replied. “They could use someone with real experience aboard a starship showing them the ropes.”

“How about you, Spock? Have you given any more thought to the seminar offer?”

As his friends continued the conversation around him, Jim began to eat. He chimed in where appropriate, but for the most part he let them do the talking.  His whole body ached from the exertion of walking, not to mention the fall he took, and he was content to listen and enjoy the company of his crew. Together, they laughed and discussed plans while he worked his way through the soup and sipped at the water.

This time, it stayed down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> “My mozhem sdelat' eto!” - “Мы можем сделать это!” - “We can do it!”
> 
> “Beris' druzhno, ne budet gruzno.” - “Бери́сь дру́жно, не бу́дет гру́зно.”- “[If all of us] take hold of [it] together, it won’t feel heavy."
> 
> Radiation and Muscular Atrophy- Exposure to high levels of radiation can trigger myopathies and muscular atrophy. Further damage may include myelo/radiculo/plexo/neuro myopathies, which causes weakened muscles and mobility dysfunction. Assuming that the combination of Khan's blood and regenerative treatments have purged his body of most of the radiation, the lingering effects of exposure could still cause these symptoms, lengthening recovery time.


	4. Day Thirty Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim comes down with a cold. The admiralty grow impatient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a challenge, and I am eternally grateful to ensanguind, as always, for editing, suggesting, and for listening to me whine about medical theory for hours.

Jim sat cross-legged on the bed, dressed in old sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt that Sulu had retrieved from his apartment and reading the novel that Chekov had brought him a few days before. He wasn’t particularly picky when it came to reading, but Russian literature was _weird._ He was only about a hundred pages in and he was pretty sure everyone was going to die.

And speaking of pain and suffering… his chest hurt.

That was the first thing he had noticed when he had woken up. He felt congestion and pressure like a balloon about to burst behind his sternum, and with each breath the pressure increased.

Reflexively turning his face into the crook of his elbow, he winced at the hollow sound of his coughs, rattling deep in his chest. Well, that probably wasn’t good. He winced as the pressure in his chest grew. He had managed a decent amount of sleep, but now that he was awake he wished he’d been able to sleep longer. He was too cold, and with each new round of coughing, he felt less and less capable of catching his breath. He’d probably picked up a cold; add it to the list of reasons he hated hospitals.

Turning the page he cleared his throat. He wished he had something hot to drink to loosen some of the congestion, but he didn’t want to disturb anyone. The pressure in his chest built, and his breath hitched as he hunched forward against the uncomfortable sensation. His chest felt too small, like his lungs couldn’t quite inflate enough, and he forced himself to take a deep breath, painful though it was.

For a moment, it seemed to help. Then, he was coughing again. Damnit.

After several moments of uncomfortable hacking, he finally caught his breath, thumping a fist against his chest in an attempt to dislodge some of the congestion.

He swung his legs off the side of the bed. The floor was freezing against his bare feet, and he inhaled sharply with discomfort, kicking off a new round of coughing-- a dry, rattling hack that ripped harshly from his throat.

 _S_ _on of a bitch_ that hurt.

It hurt _a lot._

Well, today was going to be fun.

Since he had begun walking more frequently, they had switched him over to the monitoring bracelet full time so he could leave the bed if necessary without giving everyone-- namely Bones-- a heart attack. Thankfully, a little coughing fit didn’t seem to spike anything badly enough to raise the alarm, because Bones hadn’t come crashing into the room yet demanding to know what was wrong.

The last month had seen Bones running himself ragged, looking after Jim since he had woken up. Selfishly, Jim was glad that it had been Bones handling most of his treatment, because other doctors still made him antsy. Well qualified or not, he was distrustful of the medical profession at large-- call it an unfortunate side effect of his past.

He was glad, though. He was now capable of standing for a respectable period of time, and his unaided lap count of the room had grown to a solid twenty two before he felt like he’d run a marathon, and as a result Bones was comfortable leaving him alone for longer periods of time. He slept at his own apartment now, and he looked far less stressed than he had those first two weeks.

Jim, on the other hand, looked like hell.

He winced at the sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. Supposedly, he was looking ‘better’, but _jeez._ Better than what?

He used the restroom and blew his nose with some tissue, tossing it into the trash bin in the corner. He washed his hands, trying studiously to avoid his own reflection but it impossible. He made the mistake of glancing up, and was treated to the sight of the sickly pallor of his skin and what he could see of his frame, thin and lanky with muscle loss.

He had a long way to go.

He sighed, catching himself just in time before he could trigger another coughing fit. He cupped his hands, filling them from the gentle stream that flowed from the taps and splashed his face. It was cool and refreshing, so he repeated the process, taking a drink this time. It soothed his raw throat, but did nothing for the tightness in his chest.

Giving his hair a quick tousle, he left the bathroom and made for his bed, eager to pull the covers around himself to ward off the chill.

The door flew open before he made it halfway.

* * *

 

Len was on his way into the hospital when he spotted them: three members of the admiralty marching purposefully up to the nurse’s station and demanding, without a hint of subtlety, to speak with Captain Kirk immediately.

The nurse, timid and cowed before the irate higher-ups, stammered out an agreement, and led the way.

Shit. Time’s up.

Whipping out his communicator, he fired off a message to each member of the bridge crew warning them to be on their guard before placing a call.

“Doctor McCoy? What can I--”

“Admiralty’s at the hospital, heading up to Jim’s room. Spock, get down here _now.”_  

Slamming the communicator shut, he took off running towards Jim’s room, already knowing that he wouldn’t beat them there.

_Shit._

* * *

 

“You’re a hard man to get a hold of, Kirk,” barked Komack.

Jim stood at rest, a defiant gleam in his eyes. He looked-- and felt-- every bit like the 26 year old that he was before the older, higher ranking officers, embarrassed and desperately holding back another wave of coughing.

“Sir,” he nodded, “what can I do for you?”

Admirals Komack, Barnett, and Chandra stood there staring at him, PADDs in hand, and he couldn’t have felt more naked than he did, dressed as he was in tattered sweatpants and an old hoodie.

Chandra looked him over with something like disgust mixed with concern.  Jim stubbornly met his gaze. He knew he looked like hell, but what did they expect? He’d been laid up for a month, and though they didn’t know the full story, he looked damn good for having come back from the dead, quite literally.

“You’re not on duty here, Kirk,” Barnett said firmly, glancing at Komack with a look that clearly conveyed disapproval.

Good. That would work in his favor.

With a grateful nod, Jim swallowed uncomfortably and moved toward the guest chairs on the wall, gesturing that they follow.

“Well, Kirk,” Komack continued, paying no mind to his comrades. Brushing at his sleeve, he made his way to one of the chairs where he sat heavily. “Doctor McCoy led us to believe you were on death’s door, but you look plenty fine to me.” He removed his glasses, holding them up and examining them in the light before rubbing them clean on his jacket and replacing them on his nose, fixing Jim with a look that fell just short of a glare. “You want to explain that, son?”

The other two seated themselves on either side of Komack with looks bordering on sympathy, tapping quickly at the PADDs as they prepared to take notes. Jim pulled a chair around to face them.

“I’ve been steadily improving, Admiral,” he hedged, bristling at the condescension,“but Doctor McCoy has been... cautious regarding my limitations.”

Komack had never liked him much. Pike had once told him that while most were willing to write off his sometimes less than orthodox methods as long as he got the job done, the older officer was always pushing for harsher consequences for his actions.

He felt a twinge of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his cold as he thought of Admiral Pike.

"I understand,” Chandra broke in questioningly, “that you’ve been recovering from a bout of radiation sickness?”

“Yes, sir,” Jim nodded.

That’s what they had decided to go with. He had successfully realigned the warp core, but falling debris had caused a leak into the exterior chamber where he had been working, causing radiation poisoning and lingering illness. He was in the hospital for continued monitoring of blood cell counts and fatigue.

“Nasty business, that,” Barnett said. “I’m glad to see you recovering well, Kirk.”

“Thank you, sir. Doctor McCoy is a skilled physician.”

And speak of the devil…

Bones came waltzing in at that exact moment, anger barely contained in his expression. He took one look at Jim, sitting tensely before the admiralty, and his expression darkened further.

“Gentlemen,” he said, sternly. “I’m sorry, but Captain Kirk hasn’t been cleared for inquiry yet--”

“I think we’ve waited quite long enough, thank you, McCoy,” Komack interrupted. “Besides, I think it’s quite clear that Kirk is more than up to answering a few questions.”

* * *

 

 _More than up to it, my ass_.

A single glance at Jim had told Len that he was running a fever and wasn’t feeling well at _all._ His eyes were bloodshot and his pallor was grey save for two spots of color high on his cheekbones, a slight sheen of sweat glistening under the fluorescent lights above, and he kept making these little jerking movements and huffs of sound that meant he was holding back a cough.

Jim caught his eye, and gave him the smallest shake of his head. The damn fool kid was going to just let this happen, fight his way through the interrogation regardless of what it did to his health. Well, to hell with that.

“As his attending physician,” he began, unable to keep the irritation from his voice, “I think that’s for me to decide.”

“And as you senior officer,” Komack countered, even as Chandra opened his mouth to reply, “you are out of bounds, McCoy.”

“With all due respect, _sir,_ ” the honorific sounding  a lot more like _‘asshole’._ “My turf, my rules. As a senior medical officer in this hospital, I am _telling_ you that he’s not cleared for inquiry, and if you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the board of medical directors, but for now--”

“Bones!” Jim cut in, and Christ, he sounded _awful_. His own throat hurt just hearing Jim speak. “It’s ok. Admirals, I’m sorry. Please, continue.”

“At least one of you seems to understand the proper decorum expected of a Starfleet officer!” Komack huffed indignantly, and well if that wasn’t about the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard, because Jim had broken damn near every rule in the book, but he wasn’t about to bring _that_ up.

“Forgive us, Doctor McCoy,” Barnett chimed in, “‘but this shouldn’t take too long. It is vital that we obtain Captain Kirk’s official statement regarding the events leading to the _Vengeance’s_ destruction.”

“Admiral Barnett,” the voice in the doorway made him jump, but when he saw who it was, he felt only relief. He didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to see Spock in his life.

The Vulcan was dressed in his formal Starfleet officer’s uniform, the grey material crisp and pressed, effectively presenting him as a man of power. He must have changed before coming to the hospital; the politics of Starfleet were not lost on any of them, and a little extra pull couldn’t hurt. They didn’t seem to want to listen to him, a mere doctor, but maybe Commander Spock would have more success.

Removing his hat and tucking it under his arm, Spock continued, “Were our own statements not sufficient? I’m sure the crew would be happy to provide any additional information requested.”

Sometimes Len loved that green blooded fella.

“Yes, yes, Commander Spock.” Chandra dismissed him with a wave. “That’s all well and good-- but as _acting_ captain of the _Enterprise_ during the Harrison’s capture, and, by all reports, having been aboard the _Vengeance_ when Admiral Marcus was murdered-- we must have Kirk’s record of events.”

“Enlighten me, Admirals. Perhaps I lack your superior judgement-- but it appears to me that this process is unnecessarily rushed. To what end?” Spock asked, stepping more fully into the room to stand behind the chair where Jim was now coughing into his hand. “I insist that this hearing be postponed, unless you are able to provide a reasonable explanation for your haste? The captain is clearly unwell--”

“Commander, it will be a short debriefing, nothing more,” said Chandra-- smarmy, and carefully diplomatic. We simply need to hear Kirk’s account of things so we can finish sorting out what’s left of this mess.”.

Jim caught his breath and cleared his throat with a wince. Len forced himself to breath steadily through his frustration. They weren’t going to let them out of this. Not this time.

“You have ten minutes,” he ground out, crossing his arms.

“How generous of you, McCoy,” Komack scoffed. “Now, Kirk, if you would--?”

“Yes, sir,” Jim replied, voice quiet and hoarse. “As you know, on 2259.55 the fugitive John Harrison attacked Starfleet Headquarters, resulting in multiple casualties and the assignment of the _Enterprise_ by Admiral Marcus to track him down and eliminate him.” He paused, coughing roughly into his arm. “Sorry.”

“No need for apologies, Kirk, take your time,” Chandra said, jotting down notes on his PADD and cutting off Komack mid sentence.

Len smirked at the frustrated look Komack shot Chandra in response. Bastard deserved to be taken down a peg or two. But to hell with him. Len continued watching Jim carefully. The kid was too damn good at making light of things when he was hurt or sick, and he was definitely sick. The fact that it was so obvious worried him.

“My command was reinstated on Marcus’ order. He was concerned about the possibility of a war with the Klingons, and informed us that the initial bombing in London had been a direct attack on Section 31.”

If Len hadn’t been glaring so hard at Komack, he might have missed it. The second Jim said “Section 31”, Komack was suddenly paying a hell of a lot more attention. His gaze left his PADD, head snapping up quickly, and Len would almost say he looked panicked. Just as quickly as the fear appeared, it was gone as Komack stared coolly at Jim.

“He gave us permission to pursue Harrison, equipped with advanced weaponry in the form of long-range torpedoes, with the condition that the _Enterprise_ remain in the Neutral Zone, and we immediately shipped out for Qo’noS.”

His voice broke painfully on the last word, and Len was already moving to fetch him a glass of water when Spock held up a hand and said, “Allow me, Doctor,” retrieving the water himself and passing it to Jim who sipped at it gratefully.

“Forgive me, Admirals, I can’t seem to shake this cough,” Jim said apologetically, setting the glass by the foot of his chair before continuing-- a tad breathlessly, in Len’s opinion.

“Upon reaching the treaty line of the Neutral Zone, I made the decision to apprehend Harrison for fair trial rather than to eliminate him and--”

“So,” Komack said lowly, a gleam of arrogant satisfaction in his eye. “You disobeyed a direct order from a commanding officer?”

 _Bastard._  

“I--” Jim faltered, “sir, circumstances being what they were, I felt that--”

“What you _feel_ isn’t really the concern here, Kirk,” Komack snarled back. “Did you or did you not disobey your commanding officer?”

Jim pressed his lips together in a firm line, nodding once in agreement. Komack was practically beaming.  

“Oh for--” Len grumbled under his breath before saying louder, for the room to hear, “I thought we decided weeks ago that Marcus was a traitor?”

“Doctor McCoy is correct,” Spock said. “Admiral Marcus was deliberately attempting to instigate war with the Klingons. He intended for us to violate the treaty and send our landing party to Kronos. Additionally, as each member of the _Enterprise_ bridge crew will have testified, he threatened to eliminate the _Enterprise_ entirely rather than see Harrison receive fair trial, knowing that Harrison would, no doubt, implicate Marcus’ involvement in his actions.”

“Very well,” Barnett said agreeably. “Please continue, Kirk.”

Reluctantly, Komack struck the previous comments from his record.

* * *

 

This would be the tricky part.

They had gone over this: don’t mention Khan’s true identity, don’t mention what the torpedoes really were, and don’t mention dying.

Their saving grace was that at the same time Marcus had debilitated the warp core, he had also apparently made sure to cover his tracks by disabling the audio log functionality on the _Enterprise._ There was literally no record of what had been said or done except what he and his crew offered, and-- with Marcus as a confirmed traitor-- it was unlikely their word would be questioned. All he had to do was corroborate the story already laid out by his crew, and they were in the clear.

Taking a deep breath and coughing slightly, he continued, throat aching, “Harrison surrendered, but after successfully apprehending him and plotting a course back to earth, we realized that our warp capabilities were non-functional. When we were overtaken by the _Vengeance_ under command of Admiral Marcus, I became suspicious of the convenient timing of his arrival, and realized he had known this all along. When I informed him of my intent to escort him to earth for trial, as Spock said, he threatened to kill my entire crew.”

He paused, gaze falling to the floor as he shook his head. It was still such a raw pain, the memory of their faces as he condemned them to their fate, their desperate expressions as he apologized for dooming them all.

“I tried to negotiate with him to spare my crew, but… I was unsuccessful. We were running on auxiliary power, and even if our warp capabilities had been at full capacity, we wouldn’t have been able to outrun him. Luckily their weapons system…” he coughed, which thankfully concealed the laugh he couldn’t contain, “malfunctioned.”

Malfunctioned under the capable hands of Scotty.

“Two minutes,” Bones announced, looking pointedly at Komack.

Thank God; his throat was burning and with each round of speech, he felt less and less capable of drawing breath. His ribs felt too tight around his lungs, and the urge to cough was overwhelming.

“I beamed aboard the _Vengeance_ to neutralize Admiral Marcus. During all of the confusion, Harrison escaped and went rogue, murdering Admiral Marcus before attacking the _Enterprise._ Using the torpedoes, we were able to wipe out his weapons, and as his ship fell, he set a course for Starfleet Headquarters, intent on doing as much damage as he could to Starfleet.”

Ok… hard part. He tried to take a steadying breath, but it ended in a fit of coughs that vibrated painfully in his chest, and, ok, he _really_ couldn’t catch his breath.

Panting he ignored the concerned looks of Barnett and Chandra, Bones’ call of, “Jim?” and Spock’s concerned, “Captain?” and forced himself to continue.

“The _Enterprise_ was caught in the gravitational pull of the earth, and without warp capability we were falling too fast-- so,”-- _jeez,_ he couldn’t breathe-- “I entered the w-warp chamber to perform repairs and” -- _god_ , this sucked-- “was exposed to significant amounts of radiation in the process.”

“Time’s up,” Bones said.

Perfect timing. He was going to lose it any minute now.

“Thank you, Kirk,” Chandra said. “Your record matches the statements given by your crew.”

“Was there every any doubt, Admiral?” Spock asked from behind him, and Jim smirked because that tone was distinctly fed up, or as close to the Vulcan equivalent as possible.

“Of course not, Commander Spock,” Komack said, smiling smugly. “Just protocol, you know.”

With a nod, Barnett rose from his chair and the other two followed suit.

“We’ll review this and let you know our decision, Kirk,” Komack said as he made for the door.

“Your decision, sir?” he asked in confusion.

“Regarding your future with Starfleet” Komack replied, as though it should be obvious.

Jim’s brain came to a stuttering halt. _What?_

“My future with--?”

“Your captaincy was revoked, Kirk,” Komack huffed, “surely you remember?”

“Y-yes, sir, but I was reinstated--”

“By Admiral Marcus, a confirmed traitor. Not exactly the man we want choosing our captains, you understand?”

“But I--”

Game over. He couldn’t stop the wave of coughing that overtook him, choking and hacking painfully. His eyes began watering as he fought for air, chest burning as his lungs tried to expand and just _wouldn’t._ The alarms from the monitors started shrieking.

Ok, maybe it was more than just a cold.

“Jim?” Bones called, much closer now. “Jim, breathe, kid, c’mon. Spock--”

Hands wrapped around him from behind, grasping his wrists and firmly guiding his arms above his head. There was the slightest moment of relief as the pressure in his chest eased temporarily, but just as quickly it was back. He couldn’t stop coughing.

He couldn’t breathe.

Panic clouding his mind, he heard voices raised in alarm, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. He forced himself to open his eyes, seeing a watery outline of Bones kneeling before him, scanner in hand. Spock continued holding his arms up, no doubt hoping it would allow his ribcage to expand and his lungs to admit air.  Then, Bones was gone from his sight.

Air kept going out, but none was coming in. He could feel himself getting lightheaded, dizzy with lack of oxygen.

He heard Bones’ voice, angry and loud, and hoped it wasn’t directed at him-- _I’m sorry, Bones, I should have said something_ \-- and then everything went black.

* * *

 

“Pneumonitis,” Doctor McCoy growled from his seat opposite Spock’s own beside Jim’s bed, head in his hands. “From the radiation. That much pain, and he didn’t say a word.”

Jim had lost consciousness, unable to take in enough oxygen to sustain his body. Doctor McCoy had been livid, demanding that the admirals leave at the room immediately as he instructed Spock to get to Jim to his biobed. Spock had obliged, circling the chair and lifting the captain bodily, carrying him to the bed as the alarms continued blaring, notifying the medical personnel of the patient’s distress.

Nurses had come running, brushing past the admirals as they stood dumbly just inside the door. McCoy’s scans finally gave him the source of the trouble, and as he frantically placed an oxygen mask over Jim’s mouth and nose, he called out, “Get me Pembrolizumab, _now!”_

The medicine had eased Jim’s ragged breathing, but the oxygen mask remained in place all the same, providing pure, concentrated air to him as he slept.

“I do not believe he was aware, Leonard,” he said quietly, watching the doctor’s distress.

“Oh, he knew,” McCoy snarled. “He knew something was wrong and he didn’t say anything. He might not have known what it was, or that it would be this bad but he knew.”

“Doctor McCoy,” he said placatingly, attempting to soothe the doctor’s ire, “it is not logical to be angered by Jim’s lack of understanding of--”

“No, Spock, what’s not _logical,”_ McCoy spat back at him, meeting his eyes with a glare, “is for him not to tell me, his _doctor_ that his lungs weren’t expanding and he couldn’t fucking _breathe.”_

“Doctor, you and I both know that--”

“ _God damnit!”_ the doctor rose to his feet, pacing angrily, prowling the length of the room as he ran a hand through his hair. He rounded the bed, making his way to the window where he crossed his arms and looked out at the city below, shoulders heaving in frustration. “We could have lost him, today, Spock. After everything he’s been through, we could have lost him to his-- his damn stubborn pride.”

With sudden clarity, Spock understood. The doctor was angry, yes, but his anger was rooted in fear. Fear for Jim. Fear for what they may have had to live through again. He had to concede to the validity of the sentiment; he had felt the unpleasant pang of fear when the captain had lost consciousness, barely breathing, and during the flurry of activity afterwards.

“I understand your frustration,” he said after a moment, rising from his own chair to face the doctor, Jim’s bed at their backs. “But I truly do not believe this was an intentional omission, nor do I think it was a matter of pride. I do not believe the captain understood the severity of the situation. Up until the final moments of the debriefing, none of us suspected that circumstances were so dire.”

“Oh, no?” McCoy asked, sarcasm dripping from each word. “I knew from a single look that he was running a fever. The second he spoke I knew his throat was irritated. And those coughs weren’t normal for a simple cold, Spock. I knew, and I just… I caved.” His shoulders slumped, the very picture of guilt, as he looked to Jim’s unconscious form. “I knew he couldn’t handle this yet, and I let it happen anyway.”

“We could not have stopped it, Doctor,” Spock insisted. “We have known for some time now that the admiralty was losing tolerance for our repeated delays. Their minds were made up; we could not have changed them.”

McCoy sighed heavily, gaze fixed firmly on Jim.

After several moments of silence, Spock spoke again, reluctantly.

“If his captaincy is not reinstated… what will happen, then?”

That was a complication they had not considered. Jim had been demoted a mere two days before he was once again captaining the _Enterprise_ ; the reality of their circumstances had not truly occurred to them, and thus they had forgotten entirely, Jim’s recovery taking priority over all else. They had prepared thoroughly for the admirals’ debriefing, solidifying their slightly altered statements amongst the bridge crew again and again until each knew without hesitation what to omit and what to disclose. They had not expected, after all that had occurred, the possibility that Jim’s demotion would still be considered.

Spock was uncertain how Jim would react should that possibility become reality.

With a humorless laugh, expression falling further, the doctor replied, “I don’t wanna find out.”

“Nor do I,” Spock replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is Jim's hospital room, for any who are wondering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> Radiation Pneumonitis- Radiation Pneumonitis is a complication following radiation exposure that presents anywhere from 1-6 months post exposure. It mimics the symptoms of pneumonia, but can be much more severe. The radiation causes a reduction in surfactant production. Surfactant is the substance that keeps the lungs expanded during exhalation. Without sufficient amounts, the exchange of oxygen and carbon monoxide is thrown off balance, causing labored breathing and oxygen shortages.


	5. Day Thirty Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bones is less than pleased that Jim didn't tell him he was feeling poorly. Scotty knocks some sense into both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, giant thank you to ensanguind for their invaluable edits, and for listening to me whine about this chapter for days while I took a break.

“I’m sorry.”

Those were the first words out of his mouth when he woke up and saw Bones, seething at his bedside, his disappointment blatant. Jim felt about two inches tall. His words fogged up the oxygen mask and shifted it slightly,  pinching at the skin around his nose and mouth. His voice sounded awful. His torso ached with the strain of simply speaking those few words. He hurt all over, and he felt like he wanted to sleep for about a year. 

It had definitely been more than a cold.  

Bones let out a sarcastic laugh, and Jim could have sworn he felt his heart drop into his stomach. He swallowed heavily; it was going to be one of  _ those _ talks, the kind that didn’t end until Bones had decided he was done yelling and Jim felt like he wanted to crawl under a rock. Feeling as awful as he did, he wasn’t sure he had it in him to have one of those talks today. He hated disappointing Bones; he never meant to, it just sort of happened. Repeatedly. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Jim?” Bones asked, sounding every bit as exasperated as he looked. He had yet to look at Jim, choosing instead to focus on his hands as he picked at his thumb nail with his opposite ring finger, an old habit he had yet to break. 

Jim hesitated, knowing that the answer wouldn’t be good enough. 

“It was just a cough,” he rasped, shrugging weakly as he dropped his gaze to the bedsheets, one of his own nervous habits kicking in as he plucked lightly at a loose thread in the top sheet. “Didn’t want to worry you over nothing.”

Bones barked out a laugh that time, dark and cynical, and Jim flinched at the sound. 

“Hell of a good job you did,” Bones said mockingly. Jim felt his eyes begin to well up with unbidden tears; the overwhelming combination of exhaustion, pain, and guilt was leaving him feeling awful and vulnerable. Huffing out a sharp exhale, he closed his eyes tightly to prevent them from falling. “It was radiation pneumonitis. Your lungs weren’t expanding, Jim.” 

Oh. That was a hell of a lot more than a cold. 

“Bones,” he croaked out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--” 

Bones didn’t let him finish. 

“Don’t, Jim. Just don’t,” he snapped. “You can’t excuse this away, there’s no justifyin’ it. Do you have  _ any _ idea what that was like? I thought we were gonna lose you  _ again _ .” 

That wasn’t fair. He wasn’t trying to ‘justify’ anything, he was just trying to explain what had happened. He honestly hadn’t known it was anything serious. If he’d thought it was, he would have said something. Maybe. 

Bones stared hard at the ground, seemingly deep in thought. After several moments, he nodded to himself, having come to a decision. 

Rising and tapping harder than strictly necessary at the screen displaying Jim’s stats, he said,  “The bed monitors are going back on. You so much as sit up, I’ll know about it.” 

Jim’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, the urge to argue rising immediately. He had been making such good progress; they had started tossing around release dates in the next several weeks. Was Bones really going to throw all of it out the window because of one bad judgement call? 

“Bones--” he began, placatingly “c’mon, I’m sorry, I just--” he trailed off as Bones continued ignoring him. More insistently, he said, “Bones, can we please just talk about this?” 

No response. 

Sighing, Jim conceded defeat. He was devastated by the decision, but he knew better than to argue with Bones in a rage. It wouldn’t get him anywhere. 

“Fine,” he said quietly. After a few moments, he reached up to readjust the oxygen mask; it was digging uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose. 

“Don’t even  _ think _ about it,” Bones snarled at him, whirling around suddenly, and Jim startled, the sheer ferocity of it shocking him. 

Bones was more than angry. He was  _ livid _ . Jim had really fucked up.

“I’m not taking it off,” Jim gasped, raising his hands defensively, “I’m just--” 

“Then you tell me  _ why _ ,” Bones insisted, voice low, crossing his arms across his chest. “You give me a valid reason and, as your  _ doctor _ , I’ll decide about any adjustments.” 

‘Doctor’ was pointedly emphasized. 

And, ok, that wasn’t entirely fair, either. Bones couldn’t just take all decision making away from him because of this, could he? He really hadn’t meant to keep Bones in the dark, not about something this big. He had honestly thought it was just a bad cold. He hadn’t seen a reason to kick up a fuss over a cough and some congestion. But, not wanting to irritate the doctor any further, his own temper flaring, he rasped out: 

“It’s digging into my nose.” 

Bones’ expression softened, ever so slightly. Turning back to the monitors, he slid his hand along the screen, finding the readings he wanted and humming in contemplation. 

“Fine. Your O2 levels have stabilized, and you are breathing easier,” he said, putting on gloves and moving to the cabinet against the far wall, retrieving equipment. “The mask can go, but I’m gonna replace it with a cannula.” 

Jim nodded. He’d take what he could get. He forced himself not to fidget or fuss and Bones removed the oxygen mask, connecting the cannula tubing to the oxygen dispenser, and fed the prongs into his nostrils. He blinked through the discomfort, but managed not to pull away. Bones tucked the tubing behind his ears, and tightened the fastener under his chin, securing it in place. 

With a heavy sigh, Bones pursed his lips and blinked hard twice, before taking hold of Jim’s chin between a thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up to face him directly. Jim’s eyes widened at the movement, opening his mouth to protest the juvenile treatment, but Bones beat him to it. 

Bones met his gaze directly. His voice was softer, but firm, as he said, “You can’t pull this shit, Jim. Not now. Your body’s been through hell, and we’re in uncharted territory here. If something doesn’t feel right, I don’t care how insignificant you think it is, you  _ tell  _ me. We clear?” 

“I hear you,” Jim whispered, uncomfortable under the intense gaze, pushing weakly at the hand on his face. 

“Good,” Bones said firmly, releasing his chin and pulling off his gloves as he made for the door. “I’ll be back to check on you in forty five minutes. Don’t even think about leaving that bed.” 

“Yeah, ok.  _ Doctor,”  _ he sniped as the door opened. 

Jim felt an immature rush of satisfaction as Bones stiffened in shock at the comment. It vanished as fast as it appeared when he left without another word. Not so much as a glance. 

Jim laid against the pillows staring at the ceiling. No moving the uncomfortable medical equipment. No sitting up. No leaving the bed… 

Apparently Len could take an awful lot of decisions away from him, after all. 

* * *

“What do you mean his  _ captaincy _ is in question?” Nyota asked, brows furrowing in confusion. “How is that even possible? After everything he did-- after everything he sacrificed?” She paused, scoffing in disgust as she raised her steaming mug of tea to her lips. “But of course they don’t know anything about that, do they?  _ QoHs. _ ” 

“I find myself in agreement with your sentiment,” Spock said, seating himself opposite her with his own mug. “And that is why I have asked you to meet with me today.” 

She had received the call early that morning requesting that she meet Spock at his apartment at 0900 hours, and had agreed immediately upon hearing that it was regarding Jim’s commission. They all knew, thanks to McCoy, that the admiralty had finally decided they were done waiting and had effectively bullied their way into debriefing him yesterday. Based on the later message they had received from Spock saying that Jim was unconscious and having trouble breathing, she assumed it hadn’t gone well; she hadn’t been expecting this. 

“What do you have in mind?” she asked, leaning back in her chair. 

“I am not certain yet what the best course of action will be,” Spock admitted, clasping his hands together on the tabletop and watching the steam rise from his tea. 

“We don’t know what their official decision will be, yet,” she reasoned, idly stirring her drink with a teaspoon. “What are the chances that this is all just a misunderstanding?” 

Spock hesitated. “Admiral Komack was quite clear when he said that Jim’s demotion is still under effect. Logically, the unfortunate demise of Admiral Pike would have lent itself to his promotion due to sheer necessity, but--”

“--but Marcus was the one who gave the official order, and Marcus was a backstabbing traitor,” she finished for him. “They can’t honestly be intending to send him back to the academy, can they?” 

“I am hopeful,” Spock continued, “that the admiralty will come to the same conclusion that we have: that the end justified the means, and that Jim is worthy of his commission as captain of the  _ Enterprise.  _ However, should they decide otherwise…” Taking a deep breath, he met her eye and announced: “I am prepared to resign my post as an officer.” 

Nyota gaped at him for a moment before asking, “What will you do instead? If it comes to that?” 

Spock did not hesitate. “I will teach,” he replied. “Or I will follow the path of my elder counterpart as an ambassador, but without the Captain I will not continue on as a science officer.” 

Nyota felt a rush of pride for her friend’s loyalty.

“Ok,” she agreed, nodding slowly. “If they refuse to reinstate Jim as captain, we quit.”

Spock blinked, tilting his head to the side in confusion. “I cannot ask you to make the same decision--” he began, but she cut him off. 

“You’re not asking, I’m  _ telling  _ you: if Jim isn’t captain, I’m not going back out, either.” 

“I must admit, I had hoped you would come to this conclusion. However, I am uncertain that it will be enough to persuade them,” Spock admitted quietly. 

“‘We might not need to persuade them,” she responded, placing a hand on his sleeve. “They’re going to do what they want-- maybe they’ll reinstate him, maybe not-- but after what he did for us… if it comes down to it, the least we can do is  _ try.”   _

“Indeed,” he said, lips twitching upward as he sipped at his own, now cooling tea. “I thank you.” 

“Of course. We’re not going to leave him behind,” she said firmly. 

“I hope the others will share your sentiment. Should it come to this, we may be more successful with higher numbers. The loss of one, or even two, officers is not particularly impactful, but perhaps the loss of an entire bridge crew…” he trailed off. 

Standing and retrieving her communicator, she replied, “There’s only one way to find out.” 

* * *

The previous day, they had each received a message from McCoy alerting them that the admiralty had finally decided to barge into the hospital unannounced and interrogate Jim. A follow up message from Mr. Spock informed them that the captain was ill and had lost consciousness, but was expected to recover with few complications. Then, a second message from the doctor commanding that there be “no visitors until further notice.” 

As such, he had waited a respectable twenty four hours before heading to the hospital. Scotty wasn’t much for rule following, himself.

He made his way towards Jim’s room, keeping a wary eye out for the doctor as he went; as much as he didn’t mind disregarding an order here and there, he also had no desire to come face to face with McCoy and get caught red handed. 

That man could be downright frightening when he worked himself into a lather. 

He tapped on the door before entering, and was surprised to see Jim lying flat on his back-- staring at the ceiling, and clearly seething. None of them had seem him fully reclined since he’d begun walking again; he was always sitting up or making laps of the room, determined to get his strength back as soon as possible. It was far too reminiscent of the earlier days of his recovery for Scotty’s comfort. 

“Well, there, lad,” he said in greeting, pulling a chair up to sit at the bedside. Jim didn’t respond, remaining motionless, lips pressed into a firm, white line. “What’s got you so down, eh?” 

Jim exhaled heavily. 

“Don’t worry about it, Scotty,” he deflected. He glanced towards the door before continuing, bitterly, “I don’t think anyone’s supposed to be here.” 

“Well, I’m not about te clipe if you aren’t,” Scotty replied with a wink. 

A small laugh escaped Jim against his will, no more than a hoarse rasp of air. 

“Just-- don’t particularly feel like pissing Bones off anymore than I already have,” he said, his attempt at lightheartedness falling spectacularly flat as his frustration leaked into his tone. 

Scotty figured as much; the doctor had been suspiciously unresponsive to all messages that had been sent inquiring about the visitor ban. He had assumed the man had worked himself into a snit over something or other. 

“Ach, pay no mind te him,” he said, waving him off. “He’s got himself a bad case o’ the crabbits, te be sure, but he’ll calm in a short while. Just you wait, laddie.” 

“Yeah,” Jim said skeptically. “I’m sure.” 

Oh goody, both of them had their knickers in a twist. How delightful for him. 

“So,” he said questioningly after several moments, “you mind explaining that under your nose, there?” 

“I had a bad coughing fit and couldn’t catch my breath,” Jim answered. Scotty had the sneaking suspicion he was hedging the truth, but he didn’t feel the need to call him out on it. 

“Well, then,” he replied. “Best take it a bit easy today, aye?” 

“Yeah,” Jim said, a sour smile on his face, “looks like that’s the plan.” 

They sat in silence for several moments before Scotty grew restless. Something had clearly happened between the doctor and the young captain, and it was doing neither of them any good to sulk and stew like this. Time to get to the bottom of things.  

“Alright, lad,” he blurted, scooting his chair closer and resting an elbow on Jim’s bed. Jim had yet to move past turning his head too look at him. “Why don’t you tell me what’s  _ really  _ happened?” 

For a moment, he thought Jim wasn’t going to answer him, but apparently whatever it was bothering him more than he had previously let on, because he tugged at his hair with a groan and said, “I fucked up, Scotty. I fucked up  _ bad.”  _

“Well then…” he urged, leaning back in his chair a bit, “let’s have it.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Jim confessed. “Yesterday, I just… I thought it was just a stupid cold.” 

Scotty eyed him questioningly. “You thought a wee cold would put you out?” 

“Well, I didn’t know I was going to pass out until it happened, I just-- wait, how did you know--?” Jim replied, incredulously. 

“Mister Spock sent us a message yesterday letting us know that you weren’t up te snuff. No details, mind; just let us know that you had knocked yourself out.” 

Jim rolled his eyes.

“I had been coughing, and yeah, I felt like shit, but I didn’t think much of it. I’ve been in a hospital for over a month, I was bound to pick something up eventually, right?” 

Scotty ignored the rhetorical, responding instead with, “And I take it the good doctor isn’t too happy that he wasn’t informed?” 

Jim scowled, turning a glare at the door, frustration seeming to grow as he discussed the situation.  

“Let’s just say I’ve been placed under house arrest. No visitors, no moving, no anything without his say so,” he bit out.

Ooh, Jim couldn’t be enjoying that. Jim hated being told what to do. To date, the only people who had successfully gotten away with it appeared to be the doctor in question and, on rare occasion, Mr. Spock. 

“Well, one down, one to go, then.” 

“One--?” 

“No visitors, you say? And yet,” he gestured at himself, throwing his arms out wide, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Here I am!” 

Jim let out a genuine laugh at that, and Scotty smiled. 

“Let’s try for number two, shall we?” he whispered dramatically, resting a fingertip on the button that would raise the bed to have Jim sitting upright. 

“Ooh,” Jim taunted, “you’re gonna get in trouble.” 

Scotty laughed. “I live for it, Jimbo,” he replied, as the bed whirred and adjusted its position. 

Now more upright, Jim looked relieved, defiant, and just the tiniest bit nervous. 

Patting him on the shoulder, Scotty said, reassuringly, “You’ll be back on your feet in no time, laddie. I guarantee it. This is just a wee setback, that’s all.” 

Even as angry as he was, McCoy wouldn’t do anything to intentionally hinder Jim’s progress. Scotty had a hunch that as soon as Jim recovered from this unfortunate bout of illness, he’d be up and about. 

“He uh--” Jim faltered, looking mildly concerned, and more than a bit irked, “he didn’t give me any sort of deadline, really. I’m a bit worried he’ll try and just keep me here forever.” 

“He can certainly try,” Scotty said, nodding slowly, “but we’d bust you out eventually.” 

Jim snorted, tugging lightly at the tubing resting across his cheekbones. 

Glancing at the clock on the wall-- and noting that it was late in the afternoon-- Jim reluctantly ended the visit. 

“He’s probably on his way here right now. He said he’d be back to check on me every forty five minutes, and time’s almost up-- plus--” he gestured to his now upright torso; the monitors would surely have alerted to the doctor to the movement. “You’d better get out of here.” 

The words were said lightly, but he could tell by Jim’s expression that he was genuinely disappointed. 

“Alright, alright,” he said, rising from his seat. “But we’ll all be back te see you just as soon as we hear the all clear, aye?”

“Sure thing, Scotty. Thanks.” 

With a final pat to Jim’s shoulder, Scotty turned and left the room.

And walked straight into Doctor McCoy. 

* * *

“Scotty, what--” he stammered, “oh for--I said no visitors, what part of that wasn’t clear?” 

For chrissakes, did  _ no one  _ respect his medical opinion? 

“The part where you’ve decided to punish Jim for an honest mistake. Do you honestly think that banning him from seeing his friends is going te help him recover?” 

“Damn it, Scotty,” he said tiredly, grasping the engineer’s elbow and leading him away from Jim’s door, several paces down the corridor. “I don’t know  _ what’s _ going to help him recover, but lyin’ to me certainly ain’t gonna do it!” 

“Oh, Christ, Len, he dinnae _ lie _ !” Scotty barked, incredulous. “The lad had a cough-- he dinnae think it was anything serious!”

Forget his medical opinion, did no one understand the severity of this situation? 

“Until he understands that he’s got a long way to go yet, and that even minor things can have major consequences--” Len barreled on. 

“He understands that better than you think he does,” Scotty interrupted, crossing his arms. “He knows he messed up, and it’s plain as day he feels downright awful about it.” 

“Feelin’ awful about it meaning he’s not gonna do it again? Cuz I’m pretty damn sure I told him not to move and, if the alert I just got is any indication, he isn’t listening to me yet.” 

“He hears you, Len, but he’s going te make his own decisions. You know that as well as I do.” 

“Of course he is, stubborn brat, can’t follow a simple instruction--” 

“And,” Scotty raised his voice over the tirade, “he’s decided te listen to you-- but you’re in a foul mood and being an absolute arse about it, so I moved the bed for him.” 

That took Len by surprise. 

“What?” he asked, lowly. 

“I moved the bed,” Scotty said, smug grin on his face as he dared the doctor to say something. “Jim didn’t move, hadn’t since this morning, by the looks of things-- sure that’s doing  _ wonders _ for his body, by the way.” 

Len deflated; that took the wind right out of his sails. He had been so sure that Jim was being his usual defiant self, so ready to go busting into the room and give him a tongue lashing he wouldn’t soon forget. 

Just like he had that morning. 

He hadn’t even let him speak. 

Hell, he’d barely acknowledged him at all. 

_ Damn.  _

“Len,” Scotty said softly, placing a hand on his arm. “This isn’t going te help him. He doesn’t know what it is you’re doing here. I understand that you’re angry, I do, but you have te let him know what the plan is.”

“The  _ plan,”  _ Len responded imploringly, “is for him to get over this so we can get him back on his feet. He needs to take it easy for a few days here, until we’re sure his lungs are back to capacity, and then we’ll get him back up and walking again. Hopefully, we’ll get into more advanced physical therapy sometime in the next two to three weeks, and--” 

“Don’t tell me, you numpty,” Scotty cut in, rolling his eyes. “Tell  _ him _ . He thinks you’re never going te let him up again.” 

“Oh, he does  _ not.”  _

Did he?

Scotty shot him a look that quite clearly said Jim most certainly did think exactly that.  

_ Shit _ .

“Look, I may have been… a tad harsh this morning, I’ll give you that. But he needs to know that he can’t hide things from me, Scotty. Not right now.” 

“So tell him that, instead of treating him like a child. Did you honestly put him on  _ restriction?” _

He’d known that Jim wouldn’t be happy about that. 

At the time, he hadn’t cared. 

Slowly, he drawled, “In a manner of speaking, yes.” 

“And you thought that would work?” Scotty asked incredulously. 

“It’s worked so far, hasn’t it?” he retorted. It had been well over 6 hours, and according to the monitors, Jim hadn’t moved until a few minutes ago.  

“Because he’s hurting, and doesn’t want te upset you any more than he already has. He dinnae say much, but I get the impression that you weren’t exactly subtle.” 

Len didn’t know what to say to that. He hadn’t been subtle at all. He’d made his displeasure quite obvious… he’d  _ screamed  _ at the kid. 

_ Damnit.  _

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Scotty said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But I strongly suggest that you head in there and make amends. For both of your sakes, and ours. I cannae guarantee that Uhura won’t have your head for keeping visitors away.”

Indicating Jim’s door with a jerk of his head, the Scotsman turned and walked away. 

With a sigh of frustration, Len made his way to Jim’s room. 

Jim watched him as he entered, expression carefully blank, eyes silently challenging him to say something about the bed being adjusted. 

Deciding not to comment on that for the time being, he hesitated only slightly before he said, “So Scotty tells me I may have been a bit harsh on you earlier.” 

* * *

 

So much for not ratting him out. 

“Scotty should keep his mouth shut,” he retorted quietly, gaze falling to his sheets. 

“He’s concerned about you,” Bones grumbled back, rolling his eyes to the ceiling in annoyance. “He’s worried about how you might be feelin’ about all of this.” He gestured vaguely around the room. 

“Well,” Jim shot back, “that makes one of you.” 

The more he thought about the way Bones had acted that morning, the more irate he got. He wasn’t a child, and he certainly didn’t want to be treated as such; Bones chewing him out was nothing new, but screaming at him and then declaring that he wasn’t allowed to so much as sit up? That had been uncalled for.

He felt the slightest bit of guilt when, a moment later, Bones sighed, rubbing at his temples tiredly. His shoulders fell and he quietly said, “Jim…” 

But why should he feel guilty? He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, it was an accident. Maybe he could have told Bones sooner that he wasn’t feeling well, but how was he supposed to know he had some sort of rare mystery post radiation exposure lung infection? 

“Look, I didn’t move the bed, I didn’t get up, and I told Scotty he wasn’t supposed to be here,” Jim insisted. “I didn’t do anything you told me not to, doc, so--”

“Jim, stop it,” Bones said dejectedly. 

“Look,” Jim pressed on, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I wasn’t feeling great. I fucked up, I get it. Ok? I’m sorry for whatever setbacks in my recovery I may have caused by being such an idiot, and I’m sorry that I stressed you out--”

“Jim, you know damn well that’s not why--”

“--but,” Jim continued, raising his voice painfully as he spoke over Bones, “luckily for us we’re not really on any sort of a deadline now, are we?” 

Bones’ expression folded into confusion, eyes narrowing as he said, “Deadline-- what deadline?” 

"Yeah,” Jim shrugged, swallowing against the lump that had formed in his throat. “I’m not gonna be a captain anymore… so--”  _ God _ , it hurt to say, “no deadline.”  

Out of everything that had happened yesterday, in his opinion, that had been the worst. After everything-- losing Pike, almost losing his entire crew, giving up his life to save them-- after all of the sacrifice, he was going to lose his ship, too? 

“Jesus,” Bones said, staring at him in disbelief. “Is  _ that  _ why you’re being such an asshole?” 

Clenching his jaw, Jim smirked cockily up at him and quipped, “Guess so. What’s your excuse?” 

For a moment, they just stared at each other, glaring stupidly and waiting for the silence to break. Then, Bones’ lips twitched ever so slightly. Jim knew from years of experience that it meant he was trying not to laugh. 

“Touché, kid,” Bones sniffed, stepping more fully into the room as the tension eased slightly. 

Jim relented, smiling more kindly at the doctor. “No for real,” he joked, “what’s your excuse?” 

Bones seated himself the chair Scotty had recently vacated, admitting with a sigh, “Don’t think I’ve really got one.” 

Well, at least he could admit it. 

Jim sighed softly, releasing some of the frustration that he still felt at his friend’s behavior. He didn’t want to argue with him any more. He hadn’t wanted to in the first place. 

“I am sorry I freaked you out, Bones,” he said, using the nickname for the first time in several hours. “I swear, I didn’t mean to.” 

“I know,” Bones replied quietly. “I know, and I shouldn’t have reacted like I did this morning. I should have let you explain your side of things. I just panicked. When you passed out, I panicked, and I haven’t stopped panicking.” 

“Well stop panicking,” he said encouragingly. “I’m good. I mean, I’m a bit sick right now, but I’m gonna be ok, right?” 

“Yeah, kid, you’re gonna be fine. I just forgot for a second; need to remember to take a step back and remember now and then.” 

After several moments, Jim reached out and nudged at Bones’ shoulder with his fingertips, slowly and intentionally defying his previous orders not to move. Bones just smirked at him. 

“We good?” Jim asked. 

Bones lightly clapped him on the arm. “Yeah, kid, we’re good.” 

Jim didn’t want to hear him say it. Not again. 

“I know,” he cut him off. “But-- it’s not going to happen.” 

Jim could see that Bones was warring with himself as he debated how to respond, doctor conflicting with friend on whether to offer optimism or poorly timed realistic expectations. 

Thankfully, eventually one side won out and Bones declared:  “You’re damn right, it’s not going to happen. God help me, I’m going to keep you alive until you’re old and fat and I’ve decided I absolutely can’t stand you anymore and then  _ I’m  _ gonna kill ya myself.” 

Jim let the relief of no longer arguing sink in for a moment. Then he realised exactly what Bones had said, and scoffed indignantly, “I’m sorry, did you say  _ fat?” _

“Oh for--out of everything I just said  _ that’s _ what you take issue with?” Bones shoved him gently, exclaiming, “Lord, you’re vain.” 

“Can you blame me?” Jim asked suggestively, gesturing up and down the length of his body suggestively. 

It wasn’t until Bones raised an eyebrow in disbelief that he remembered that he was wearing scrubs and a cannula and really didn’t look that great at the moment. 

“Ok, ok, don’t judge me off of  _ now, _ ” he amended, “judge me off of two months ago. Remember how hot I was in those robes on Nibiru?” 

Bones smirked, “I’ll grant you that kid: all covered up like that, you looked pretty good. And the not talkin’ part was an added bonus.” 

“Hey, I am an  _ invalid  _ here,” Jim laughed. “Respect your patient!” 

“Mhmm,” Bones responded. 

Eventually, Jim couldn’t resist asking one of the more pressing questions that had been plaguing him since that morning. 

“So uh-- how long until you’ll let me up again? Week? Month?” 

They may have made up, but he knew that Bones wasn’t going to let him do anything that might endanger his health. But he had made so much progress-- he hated to see it all go down the drain. 

Bones must have seen his genuine concern on his face, because he quickly answered, “No, no, God… I’m sorry-- I know better than that, I should have given you specifics-- just until your lungs clear start to heal. They’re already much improved. I just want to make sure we’re not putting any strain on your respiratory system before we have you runnin’ marathons.” 

“So--?” he asked hopefully.

“Few days, tops,” Bones shrugged. “Suppose I made it sound more like I was lockin’ you in a dungeon and throwin’ away the key.” 

“Just a tad,” Jim said, laughing nervously in relief. 

“I’m--” 

“Can we please be done apologizing now?” Jim said, rolling his eyes, “We were both assholes, yeah, yeah--” 

“Well fine, you little shit,” Bones griped, but there was no heat in it. Crossing his arms across his chest he said, “but don’t you  _ ever _ call me ‘ _ doc _ ’ again. I thought ‘Bones’ was bad…”

“I  _ knew _ you’d come around to Bones eventually!” Jim exclaimed victoriously, coughing slightly as it irritated his throat.

Bones stared at him blankly.  

“I’m going to smother you with a pillow.” 

“Oh, please, you are  _ not,  _ Bones--” 

For a while longer, they sat and joked, their comfortable banter combating the earlier hostility and tension of the day. 

By the time he started getting tired enough to fall asleep, Jim could tell they both felt loads better for it. 

As he started drifting off, he heard Bones say softly, “We’re gonna get your ship back, kid. We’ll figure it out.” 

God, he hoped that was true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> qoHs- Klingon for "fools".


	6. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim finally gets to leave the hospital. The admiralty call a hearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to ensanguind for your help and edits. I appreciate you more than you know.

Jim was back to playing the waiting game. 

Now a full month past the pneumonitis, he no longer needed any assistance with his day-to-day tasks. As predicted, he had recovered nicely from the lung infection and was back up and walking within the week. He hadn’t shown any other major signs of complication from the radiation exposure aside from the expected atrophy, which was continuously improving because of his rigorous dedication to his physical therapy. Two weeks after that godawful meeting with the admiralty, he had requested to amp up his routine. Two weeks after that, he asked again. 

He could now stand for as long as he wished and as such, avoided his hospital bed like the plague. He had spent far too much time there as it was, and so he only returned, with great reluctance, when he absolutely had to sleep. 

He was eating regularly and, though his weight wasn’t quite back to normal due to muscle loss, he knew that as soon as he was cleared for more strenuous, higher intensity training, he’d take care of that. 

Really, everything was going far better than anyone could have anticipated-- especially considering that two months ago he had been well and truly dead. 

There was only one problem. 

The crew had brought him novels and brain teasers and projects. They had faithfully kept him company, at least one of them coming to visit every single day, sometimes all of them coming in a group. They sat and talked and laughed, and helped him with his recovery in any way they possibly could. 

He appreciated it; he really did. 

But if everyone didn’t back off and start giving him a little bit of space he was going to  _ lose his freakin’ mind _ . 

That, and he was desperate to find out what the hell the admiralty had decided-- and no one would give him a PADD, let alone let him do anything productive with his time. 

“Bones,  _ please _ ,” he said, pacing anxiously up and down the length of the room, gnawing at a hangnail on his thumb. “I’m well within my rights to request a meeting with the admiralty to make my case--” 

“And just what do you think is gonna happen if you do?” Bones responded from his seat against the opposite wall. “I told you, Jim, they haven’t ruled on the reinstatement yet. I don’t know what they’re doin’ over there, but they haven’t pressed the issue of your demotion and honestly, I don’t think we should either. I think we should wait.” 

“You said yourself that I’m ready to return to civilian life, at least” Jim retorted, continuing his nervous pacing. “I’m not asking you to let me take my CFTs, for Chrissakes, I just want to find out what’s going on.”

“Captain, I must agree with Doctor McCoy,” Spock interjected, his stoic stillness a sharp contrast to Jim’s own restless activity. “As we have not yet been handed a ruling, it is logical to assume that they have not yet come a decision. Pressuring them to do so may inspire them to uphold their current decision, rather than to give this matter the deliberation it deserves. I’m sure we can all agree that this would not be a desirable outcome.”

Jim nodded absently. 

He  _ had _ to talk to the admiralty. He hadn’t been able to articulate his thoughts before, what with the whole coughing-until-he-passed-out fiasco. He had so many questions, and he hoped that if he could just sit down with them again he could change their minds. He  _ had _ to. 

But maybe Spock and Bones were right. Maybe it was best to give them time to consider their options and let them come to that conclusion themselves. 

The waiting was killing him. 

Spock had apparently encountered various members of the admiralty one-on-one in casual settings, but no further official meetings had been called. At least, not ones they were privy to. Maybe the admiralty had met, but there was no way to know. 

“If I don’t find out soon, I’m gonna lose it,” Jim said, collapsing into a chair and resting his elbows on his knees. He tugged at his hair in frustration. 

“For now, you just focus on getting back up to par physically,” Bones instructed. 

That’s all they had been telling him for months: “you just focus on this right now.”

Like he had much of a choice. 

It had been humbling, being unable to walk, or shave, or eat, or even shower by himself. He had been embarrassed and humiliated, and-- if he was being honest-- he still felt uncomfortable knowing that the crew had seen him so vulnerable. 

The one upside to his weakened state at the beginning had been that he had been too tired to really care where he was. Had he been any stronger, he would have completely flipped his lid over being stuck in a hospital for so long-- surrounded by medical personnel and equipment at all times, and powerless to stop them from doing a damn thing. 

Of course, now that he was closer to feeling like his usual self, the panic had been creeping in more and more with each passing day. He may not be hooked up to any machines anymore, save for the wrist monitor; but the overly sterile hospital room was grating on his nerves. It was simultaneously too bare, and overwhelming-- from the stale, clinical scent of the bed linens that gave him headaches, to the constant background whirring and beeping of the machines.

He tried not to complain too much. It was nobody’s fault, and there wasn’t much to be done for it-- a hospital needed equipment, and their particular brand of antiseptic soap hadn’t been chosen to personally insult him-- but he was losing patience. He wanted out; he wanted to go to some place that was just  _ his _ , and to be free to sleep and eat and work and do his exercises without someone always watching him. He hadn’t realized how much he missed such a simple thing as privacy. 

“We’ll hear soon enough,” Bones said comfortingly. “For now, let’s change the subject, get your mind off of it. I’ve got some papers for you to sign.” Rising from his chair, he crossed the room to Jim, presenting him with a PADD and stylus, beaming like he was handing him the moon. 

“What are--” he began, but scanning the forms, he answered his own question. “Are these discharge papers?” He asked in disbelief. 

“Sure are,” Bones smiled. “We’ll have you outta here within the hour.” 

Jim didn’t hesitate. He hastily scrawled his signature wherever Bones indicated, trusting that he wouldn’t let him blindly sign anything with major future consequences. He stared in disbelief, until the PADD was removed from his grasp and Bones clapped him on the shoulder before pulling him up onto his feet and into a hug. 

Laughing breathlessly, Jim returned the embrace twice as fiercely. 

“We have done our best to ensure that your apartment has been prepared for you,” Spock said, stepping forward. 

“Oh, right,” Jim replied. He hadn’t even thought about where he would stay. He knew Starfleet had issued apartments to the crew during their ground time, and demoted or not, they weren’t going to let him be homeless while they deliberated. As such, he’d been assigned one as well, but he’d never seen it. “Thank you.” 

“It was our pleasure, Jim.” 

Bones turned toward the door, taking the PADD with Jim’s signed papers to deliver to the front desk. 

“Pack up your stuff,” he said, nodding toward the duffel bag that Spock was retrieving from the cabinet against the wall. “And let’s get you out of here.” 

Jim couldn’t stop smiling. 

* * *

 

Len led the way to Jim’s apartment, seeing as how Jim had never been there. 

He told Jim the access code when the arrived at the door, grey and sleek, at the top floor of one of the many Starfleet owned complexes in the area. He’d requested a top floor apartment because it was quiet, and he knew it would be an easy enough way for Jim to get his stamina up, having access to stairs. There was a lift, of course, but he doubted Jim would take it too often once he got a bit more of his strength back. 

It was nice to see the kid so happy; the past few weeks he’d been growing increasingly restless and uncomfortable with his prolonged stay at the hospital. He’d done his best to hide it, but Len knew him too well. He’d seen the signs. 

The way Jim’s fingernails were chewed to nubs. The way his hair was always just a bit messy, like he’d been tugging at it. Not to mention all the times he’d caught him staring out the window, fingers digging into his arms just a little too tight to be comfortable, his smiles a little too forced. 

Well, hopefully he’d do a bit better now that he’d been “set free”, as he put it.  

And to start things off with a bang…

He and Spock followed him into the darkened apartment, sharing a look as Len smirked. With a nod to Spock, the Vulcan called out softly, “Lights at full.” 

Two things happened at once: the apartment lit up, revealing the large, open living area filled with boxes and to the side, a kitchen. Then, with a roar that made Jim jump, several voices called out, “Welcome home!” 

Clutching at his chest in a dramatized impression of shock and dropping the duffel full of clothes and books to the ground with a dull  _ thud, _ Jim gawked at them all: Scotty, Sulu, Uhura, and Chekov, all standing in the living room, surrounded by  piles of unidentifiable boxes of all shapes and sizes, and clad in worn and stained work clothes. 

“What on earth are you doing-- what are you  _ wearing? _ ” Jim asked, clearly unsure which question was more pressing. 

“Doctor,” Spock said from Jim’s other side, “should we not also change?” 

“That we should, Spock,” he said, accepting the bag of clothes Uhura handed him with a nod of thanks. Spock took his from Sulu, and made his way towards the restroom to change. “You too, Jimbo-- first door on the right is your bedroom, put on somethin’ you don’t mind ruining.” 

Jim bewilderedly retrieved the duffel and did as he was told as Len made his way to the other bedroom, across the hall and two doors down. 

When he emerged, wearing old sweatpants and a t-shirt with a few holes in the hem, Jim was being playfully escorted to the grey couch by Sulu and Scotty. Len felt a pang of sadness at the way the shirt hung loosely on Jim’s frame, shoulders having narrowed and torso slimmed considerably with loss of muscle mass. He tried not to dwell on it too much. They’d have him back to normal soon. 

Laughing, Jim did as he was guided to do, and sat raising his hands in question. 

“Ok, ok, what are we doing here?” he asked. “Why are we dressed like this?” 

Uhura smirked, moving to the kitchen with Spock in tow, and  _ I’ll be damned;  _ Spock was wearing a t-shirt. Len was taken aback by the sheer oddity of it. He’d seen Spock in more casual clothing over the last several weeks, but not  _ this _ casual. 

He caught Jim’s eye, tilting his head in Spock’s direction and tugging lightly at his own shirt as he mouthed, “Weird.” Jim nodded in agreement, looking a bit stunned himself.   

“Because,” Uhura called from the other room, voice strained as she lifted something, “this place has absolutely no color in it, and-- thank you, Spock-- we’re going to fix that.” 

Spock returned, carrying several different cans of paint, Uhura behind him with trays and brushes. 

It had been Uhura’s idea, and Len had loved her for it. It was a way to celebrate Jim’s release without putting all of the attention on him, and a way for him to make the place a bit more his own without being alone. Win/win. 

Not to mention the walls were an entirely too dull shade of grey. Grey couch. Grey walls. Grey door. Far too much grey. 

“So, what’s it gonna be?” Sulu asked, leaning down and crossing his arms against the back of the couch. “Uhura got basically every color out there, so--” 

Scotty leaned close to Jim’s ear and whispered conspiratorially, “I’d go with the blue, laddie.” Pointing conspicuously at Uhura, he continued, “It’s her favorite.” 

“Blue!” Jim blurted, far too quickly. 

Len laughed quietly into his hand, turning it quickly into a cough when Jim glared at him. 

“Blue it is!” Uhura declared, and began tossing brushes to everyone. “Let’s get this party started!” 

Chekov went running to the small music player that sat on the floor in the corner, turning it on and amping up the volume. Classic rock blasted through the room, and Len smiled softly as Jim beamed in delight. 

Taking a screwdriver and popping open one of the cans of the cool blue paint, Len poured it into trays which were then distributed throughout the room. Haphazardly, Chekov threw a paint sheet over the couch and table that had been provided for the apartment. Painter’s tape had already been laid along the edges where the walls, floor, and ceiling met. 

Carefully maneuvering their way around the stacks of boxes, working two to a wall, they began slathering the blue over the grey, immediately brightening up the room. Sulu was a horrific painter, brush strokes uneven and never consistent in direction. Chekov was decent, but far too focused on detail and perfectionism to make any real headway, painting in small areas for long periods of time. Uhura was swift and accurate, and covered large spaces in short amounts of time. Jim and Len were alright, years of farm-boy experience and working with their hands contributing to a decent paint job. Thankfully, Spock trailed behind them all with a roller, evening the coat and smoothing away the lines the brushes left behind. 

Scotty, on the other hand, refused to paint, focusing instead on “providing libations for the laborers”, which of course meant mixing some  _ very _ strong drinks. 

When presented with one, Jim had glanced at Len uncertainly, rubbing his forearm across his cheek and smearing a streak of blue paint high on his cheekbone. 

Len shrugged. “You’ve been off medications for a fair bit now,” he said. “I don’t see why not.” 

Smiling devilishly, Jim took the glass from Scotty, gave it a whiff, took a hesitant sip-- and promptly began coughing. 

“ _ God _ , Scotty,” he choked, voice rough from the burn of the alcohol, as the others cackled at his reaction, “what is in this drink?” 

With a wink, Scotty said mischievously, “Remember that bottle I brought you when ye were in hospital?” 

“Oh my God,” Jim replied, still sputtering. “Good thing we’re not working tomorrow.” 

“Atta boy!” Len crowed, pounding him firmly on the back as he accepted a drink for himself. 

They continued on for a few hours, painting and laughing, singing along to the music and enjoying the pleasant buzz of the alcohol. Spock refrained, but Len saw him slip away to the kitchen at one point, only to return sipping at what he suspected was hot cocoa.

Later, as they sat slumped on the drop cloth still covering the couch and armchairs, looking around at their handiwork and selecting pillows and artwork to match from the various boxes strewn around the room, Len took a moment to observe Jim. 

He looked exhausted, but in the best way. He was physically tired from the work-- and the pleasant tipsy feeling the alcohol provided, no doubt. He was smiling softly, slouched between Spock and Chekov on the couch, watching Uhura hold up art options as they voted on possibilities. 

He was glad to see the kid enjoying himself. 

At one point, Jim was jokingly considering a godawful print with an unholy mix of colors, and Len, a bit tipsy himself, protested, “Hey, I live here too, y’know.” 

Jim had turned abruptly to look at him, and he’d looked disappointed for the briefest of moments before he said, “Roomies again!” raising his glass in toast. He had quickly been drawn back into the selection process. Len made a mental note to ask about that, later. 

Finally, the entire room was decorated, complete with entertainment center that had been put together by a thoroughly inebriated Scotty and an overly enthusiastic-- but sober-- Chekov. Len’s sides still ached from laughing. 

All in all, it was the best night any of them had had in months, since well before everything that had happened on Nibiru. 

That is, right up until Jim’s communicator rang. 

“Kirk here,” he had answered lazily, still lounging on the couch. 

“Kirk, Admiral Chandra,” had come the response. Jim sat up ramrod straight in an instant, all relaxation sapped from his body as he went on high alert. 

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked, forcing pleasant politeness into his tone as he rose from the couch and left the room, closing his bedroom door behind him. 

The remaining crew glanced nervously at each other in silence. 

_ Shit.  _

After several long, tense moments, Jim reemerged, holding the communicator tightly in his fist. Face pale, the blue streak still on his cheek a sharp contrast to his skin, he cleared his throat. 

“That was Chandra,” he said. Nervously, he amended, tugging at his hair, “Right, you heard that part… uh… he said that… he said--” 

Deciding to spare his friend the awkwardness of explaining, Len sighed. 

“When’s the hearing?” he asked quietly. 

Comprehension dawned on the faces around them. Spock looked grimly determined. 

Jim met his eye, looking panicked. 

“Tomorrow at 1100 hours.” 

* * *

Taking his place at the stand, Jim adopted parade rest. It was entirely too similar to his hearing after the Kobayashi Maru; the admiralty before him, Spock and his friends, not to mention dozens of other officers,  _ Enterprise  _ crew and otherwise, behind-- waiting to hear his fate. 

His grey formal uniform hung loosely on his frame. Though he had filled out some, his muscle mass still wasn’t where it had been, least of all in his torso and shoulders. He felt small and inadequate, standing before the raised dais where the higher ranking officers looked down on him, waiting to announce their judgement. He tried not to let it show. 

“We have called you here today, Kirk,” Barnett began, purposely omitting his title. That wasn’t a good sign; they certainly weren’t going to pull any punches. “To discuss which course of action to take regarding your future with Starfleet.” 

Jim nodded respectfully, “I appreciate your time, sirs,” he said, addressing the admiralty entire. “Please proceed.” 

With a small, fond smile, Barnett continued, “As you are aware, following the events of the  _ Enterprise’s _ mission on the planet Nibiru in February, conflicting reports were received from you and your first officer. These reports-- combined with your admittance to having deliberately violated the prime directive-- led to a disciplinary decision by the board of admiralty to revoke your captaincy. A short time later, your captaincy was reinstated-- without the consideration of the majority-- by Admiral Marcus, now a confirmed traitor to Starfleet. Is this true?” 

Swallowing heavily, feelings his hands grow clammy with sweat where they rested at the small of his back, Jim answered, “Yes, sir.” 

“Thank you,” Chandra said, reviewing the PADD that sat before him. “Unfortunately, Kirk, at this time, having reviewed your statement, and the statements of the crew of the  _ Enterprise _ , we can find very little evidence to persuade us to reinstate you as captain at this time. You may file for an appeal at a later date, but unless--” 

“Forgive me, Admirals,” Spock’s voice rang out in the room, echoing in the silence. Jim tensed, shock and dread filling him, and forced himself not to turn around to see; he heard the rustle of cloth as everyone else turned and looked. “But Admiral Pike was regranted captaincy of the  _ USS Enterprise _ following the events of February’s mission to Nibiru, was he not?”

“That’s correct, Commander Spock,” Admiral Barnett said agreeably, but with no small amount of confusion. 

“And he requested C-- Kirk as his First Officer, did he not?”  He very nearly slipped, and Jim again felt the now all too familiar pang of his demotion at the mistake. 

“He did,” Chandra replied, nodding in confirmation, eyes sliding to Jim warily. 

“A decision that not all of us were in agreement with,” Komack grumbled bitterly, turning an unfriendly look on Jim. 

“And yet,” Spock continued airily, “one that was enforced-- with or without your approval, sir.” 

Scotty snickered-- not at all subtly-- behind him, and Jim fought back the smirk that wanted to appear by chewing on his lips momentarily. 

“Does it not then stand to reason,” Spock questioned, “that the position of Captain fall to Kirk, following the chain of command as Starfleet dictates?” 

Barnett began, hesitantly, “You are correct, Commander. That is the proper protocol in the event of a captain’s death--”

Sputtering indignantly, Komack cut him off.

“Be that as it may, Mr. Spock,”-- Jim was sure he left out Spock’s title intentionally-- “Admiral Pike is, regrettably, no longer here to deliberate on Starfleet matters. As such, the decision falls to us, and I must tell you at this time we are not inclined to change our position.” 

Jim’s heart sank. 

Numbly, his gaze drifted to the floor; he could feel his skin prickling as the realization of what Komack had said washed over him. He had already lost. 

He had lost his ship. 

He was going to be sent back to the academy. 

He was going to be left behind. 

“Sir, if I could just--” Jim protested, in a vain attempt to present his position. 

Komack continued his beratement, speaking over him. 

“Kirk, you have repeatedly, blatantly and willfully violated Starfleet’s code of conduct, dating back to your time at the academy-- since your attempts at Kobayashi Maru test. Commander, you, more than anyone, are aware of this fact!” 

“Oh for the--” Jim heard Bones grumble, volume increasing with each word. 

Spock interrupted, thankfully before the doctor could get himself into trouble, and Jim would have bet based on his tone alone that he was actively trying not to roll his eyes.

“If you recall, Admiral, those charges were dropped, and as such cannot be used as evidentiary--”

“Dropped charges or not, it does not change the fact that he  _ cheated!”  _ Komack roared. “He cheated the system, and by our records, he hasn’t stopped! He disobeys orders,” he ticked off on his fingers, a physical representation of his points against Jim, “he violates directives, and frankly, Starfleet is concerned about having such a loose cannon heading our flagship without authority to answer to to keep him in line!” 

Jim had spent his whole life hearing people saying hurtful things about him, true or not; it really shouldn’t hurt as much as it did at this point. He stayed silent, keeping his focus fixed on a spot of cracked tile on the floor. It grounded him; he couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. Never give anyone more ammunition to use against him; that was a pretty basic rule of his survival. 

“I believe, Admiral, that in every instance in which a rule has been broken, the conclusion has been reached that the ends justified the means. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“He may have been lucky thus far, Commander,” the Admiral snarled, growing increasingly red in the face, “but what happens when his luck runs out? When his entire crew is put into danger because of his decisions, and he can do nothing to stop it?” 

That  _ had _ happened, Jim wanted to say. He  _ had _ made stupid decisions; he had been tricked into putting them all in danger, and he regretted it every single day. He would probably regret it forever. 

But he had done everything in his power to save the crew. He had begged, he had bartered, he had given his own life to spare theirs. He bit his tongue. They couldn’t know that, and at this point, he wasn’t sure it would make a difference either way. Komack hated him, and now that he had been presented with an opportunity to get Jim demoted without interference, he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. 

“The inherent risks,” Spock retorted icily, “of holding a position as a Starfleet Officer.” 

“ _ Unnecessary _ risks,” Komack countered, “taken by an unfit and immature captain. He never even finished his education at the academy!” 

Jim took a deep breath before trying again, “Admiral, while I understand your hesitation due to my early graduation from the academy-- after everything that’s happened since--” he faltered,  “circumstances being what they were, surely you can agree that--” 

Again, Komack cut him off. 

“Circumstance,” he said with a sarcastic bark of laughter. “The circumstances always seem to be quite unique where you’re involved, don’t they, Kirk? I will not allow you to continue advancing in this program simply because of your  _ circumstances. _ You were admitted because of Pike’s pity for the son of his fallen friend. You were permitted to stay despite a piss poor attitude and numerous infractions because of luck or manipulation. Are you honestly asking us to turn a blind eye to all of this and uphold your reinstatement-- the decision of a  _ traitor _ \-- yet again?” 

Jim said nothing, defiantly meeting Komack’s eye throughout his speech. 

After several long, tense moments of silence, Spock spoke again. “Forgive me, Admirals, I see now that this meeting was unnecessary.” 

There were several murmurs of confusion, and Chandra called out, “Quiet, please… order! Commander, what do you mean--”

“I can see that you had no intention of changing your opinion on this matter. Your minds were made up before any of us set foot in this room today. You have not permitted Jim to defend himself, nor to present any evidence that may impact your decision, and therefore, this meeting was simply a waste of valuable time and energy for all-- a deliberate and cruel attempt to shame one of your most highly qualified officers before his peers for a series of events beyond his control, and to ‘put him in his place’, as the saying goes.” 

Stammering, Barnett jumped in, saying, “Commander, you are out of bounds--”

“You are correct, Admiral. As a Starfleet Officer, I am duty bound to respect my superior officers. Thankfully-- as I currently find myself unable to do so-- in a few short moments, this will be rectified. If you will excuse me, sirs.” 

At the sound of footsteps descending the aisle, Jim finally couldn’t help himself and turned around. Spock had left his seat, and was making his way towards the exit to Jim’s right. Eyeing him questioningly, Jim shook his head slightly, indicating for him to stop whatever this was. 

“What are you doing?” he whispered, loud enough for the Vulcan’s sensitive hearing to pick up. Spock did not respond. 

Chandra rose from his seat slowly, asking, “Where are you going, Commander Spock? The proceedings have not concluded and--” 

And then Spock dropped the hammer. 

“I am going,” he said, clearly forcing his tone to remain steady and calm, “to resign my post as a Starfleet Officer.” 

There had been murmurings before; now the room erupted-- hissed whisperings and gasps of surprise, muttered comments and the uproar of the admiralty was cacophonous in the previously quiet room. 

“ _ What?”  _ Jim hissed in disbelief, “Spock--”

“Are you blackmailing the admiralty?!” Archer asked incredulously, rising to be heard above the noise. 

Spock responded quickly, “Of course not, Admiral. That would be immoral and a direct violation of Starfleet policy; I simply find that my services are no longer required here.” 

“What are you talking about, Commander?” Barnett asked. 

“You said it yourself, Admiral Komack,” Spock said, “Starfleet clearly has no patience for violation of the rules, regardless of the circumstances. Having served under Captain Kirk for a year, during which time his quick thinking and unorthodox ingenuity saved my life, and the lives of the crew several times over, I find myself with a conflicting opinion. Sometimes, the rules  _ must _ be broken to ensure a favorable outcome. As such, Starfleet surely will not value my services any longer.” 

With a nod, he turned and continued his trek towards the exit, head held high and shoulders back. Jim gaped after him in shock. 

Opening and closing his mouth, he struggled to find words for a moment. Just as he readied himself to call out to the Vulcan, to make him stop this insanity-- he couldn’t lose everything he’d worked for, not for Jim’s sake-- there was a cry from behind him. 

“What he said!” Scotty yelled, rising to his feet and following Spock’s path. Spock paused in the doorway to wait for him. 

Jim was stunned. 

“Wha- Scotty, Spock,  _ what  _ are you doing?”  

Raising an eyebrow in confusion, insincere as it was, Spock turned to face Jim and responded, “Obeying the decision of the admiralty, Jim. If they do not want a captain who will sometimes disregard the rules, then certainly they will not want a science officer who has learned to do the same.” 

Scotty jumped in, “Or an engineer who was reinstated by said captain after gettin’ himself banished for unapproved experimentation with beaming technology-- so sorry  again about Porthos, Admiral Archer.” 

Archer’s mouth fell open. “You--”

“And if early graduation from the academy is going to be an issue as well,” Uhura said, as she, Chekov, and Sulu all rose from their seats, “then we’d best return to the academy to finish our education.” 

“By that logic, we’re unqualified, too.” Sulu shrugged.

Chekov, meanwhile, called out enthusiastically, “Dlya kapitana!” and practically skipped down the steps.

They joined Spock and Scotty at the door. Only Bones was left seated in their row. 

Turning to face him, Barnett said, quietly, “And yourself, Doctor? Will you be joining your-- crewmates?” Beside him, Komack was seething, eyes fixed firmly on Jim. 

“Early graduation, unnecessary risks,” Bones said slowly, “all fits the bill. Not that it matters,” he rose with a groan, “the only reason I went into the black is because of James T. Kirk.” He mosied his way down the stairs, and Jim smiled sadly at him. “I’m sure as hell not going back out without him.” 

Jim’s heart clenched painfully in his chest as he stared at them all, standing together in the doorway, ready to give up everything they’d worked for-- for him. 

“Guys,” he whispered, “don’t do this--” 

_ It’s not worth it.  _

Spock interrupted him, his stoic Vulcan delivery making his intended sarcasm poignant when he said, “This is not our decision, Jim. The admiralty has made their opinion known-- we are simply complying with their wishes.” 

Jim startled, whirling around quickly to face the admirals when Komack slammed a hand down on the podium, rising slowly to his feet and glaring dangerously at them. 

“My office…” he growled, “ _ now.”  _

* * *

 

The crew filed into the office obediently with instructions to await Komack’s arrival. Left alone, Jim whirled on them as soon as they entered. 

“What are you doing?” he hissed quietly. “Are you insane? They could discharge you for this!” 

Uhura snorted. “Can’t exactly discharge us if we resign, Kirk,” she said, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. 

“Jesus Christ--  _ semantics  _ aside,” Jim continued, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye, “do you have any idea how much trouble you all could get in for this? Komack could--”

“Ach, like we care what old snicklefritz will think,” Scotty interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, settling himself comfortably across one of the admiral’s plush burgundy desk chairs, one leg slung over the armrest. 

Chekov once again cried, “ _ Dlya kapitana!”  _ bouncing on his toes with nervous energy, but beaming with pride. 

“Scotty, don’t sit like--” Jim protested, moving to gently slap at the engineer’s legs. 

“Oh, please,” Bones said, rolling his eyes and flopping no less gracefully into the other chair. 

“Bones, c’mon, please don’t make this any worse than it--”

“Jim,” Spock said, “please, calm yourself. Regardless of the outcome, our choices are our own.” 

Jim threw his hands into the air in exasperation before pinching at the bridge of his nose and sighing heavily. 

“I  _ know  _ that, and I appreciate what you guys are trying to do, really… but you shouldn’t have done this.” 

“Yeah,” Bones scoffed. “Like we were gonna leave you behind. Good try, kid. Not happening.” 

“God, did you guys  _ plan  _ this?” Jim asked incredulously. “Don’t answer that-- of course you did--” 

At that moment, the door swung open. 

Bones and Scotty quickly righted themselves in the chairs before standing for good measure. Jim corrected his posture, squaring his shoulders and dropping his hands to his sides. Uhura remained as she was; Spock, Sulu and Chekov hadn’t moved since they arrived. 

It was not Komack who entered. It was Barnett, and Jim felt a bit of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. Barnett liked him far more than Komack ever would. With Barnett, he might at least be able to talk his friend’s back into their jobs. 

“Sir, I would like to apologize for the misunderstanding--” Barnett cut him off with a wave of his hand. 

“Let’s not stand on ceremony here, Kirk,” he said, seating himself heavily in the chair behind the desk. “I think I know what happened here, and I must say, I’m impressed. It’s not often a captain can inspire such loyalty from their crew.” 

Jim smiled, nodding lightly. “I am-- was truly privileged to serve with them, sir.” 

Barnett nodded, eyeing each of them contemplatively as he interlaced his fingers on the desktop. 

“I’ll be honest with you, Kirk,” he said grimly, “Komack doesn’t want you reinstated.” 

“Aye, no shite,” Scotty murmured before being elbowed in the ribs by Sulu. “Sorry, sir.” 

“I--got that impression, sir,” Jim said, trying for a bit more diplomacy. 

“He’s not going to make things easy for you,” Barnett continued, “no matter where you end up.” 

He paused, looking thoughtfully at Jim before leaning back in the chair. 

“Thankfully, this organization is a democracy, and as such, we decide things based on majority vote.”

For the first time since that initial meeting in the hospital, Jim felt the faintest glimmer of hope. 

“Your crew made an excellent point on your behalf, Kirk,” Barnett said, looking to Spock. “Sometimes, to achieve a favorable outcome, the rules must be bent. Broken, even. You’ve proven that more than once, and we’ve rightly rewarded you for it. Your choices have saved countless lives. As for the idea that early graduation means that an officer isn’t qualified--” he sighed, rubbing at his temple in frustration. “After Nero, the majority of our officer base came from early graduates. Komack’s reasoning wasn’t sound there, and he’s conceded that that particular argument isn’t particularly valid.” 

“I’m pleased to hear it, sir,” Jim replied, cautiously. “I would hate to see others unjustly demoted based on his opinion of me.” 

God, he hoped he wasn’t pushing it. 

Thankfully, Barnett smiled. 

“Indeed,” he said fondly. “And what of yourself? Should you not also be treated justly, regardless of someone’s opinion?” 

Jim let out a breathless laugh, humorless and dry. 

"In a perfect world, sir, but I know better than most that life isn’t fair. I understand that I’ve made my share of mistakes, and Admiral Komack isn’t wrong when he says I’ve made some unorthodox command decisions.” 

Barnett nodded, expression giving away nothing. After a long pause, he spoke again, rising to his feet. 

“The admiralty will deliberate. You will be informed of our decision. Thank you for coming today, Kirk.” 

Wait… that was it? Jim had thought things had been going ok, for a second there. What had changed? What if they just wanted to break the news to him lightly? 

Barnett extended his arm to Jim for a handshake, and, suddenly feeling weak kneed and slightly lightheaded, he grasped the admiral’s hand in his own. 

“Thank you for your time, sir,” he heard himself say, though he was not actively aware aware that he had spoken. “And please, thank the other admirals for me as well.” 

He might feel like he was going to pass out, and he might be about to lose everything that had ever mattered to him, but damnit, at least he was still polite. 

With a firm clap to his shoulder, Barnett said, “Go home, get some rest. You look like you could use it.” 

Way to kick a guy when he’s down. 

“Yes, sir,” he replied, still feeling oddly detached. 

“Well,” Sulu said brightly from somewhere behind him, “that seemed promising!” 

“Of course it did,” Uhura retorted. “They know better than to let the best crew in years walk away over one man’s stupid opinion--” 

As they continued discussing their view of the situation, Jim could only stare at the desktop, the dark wood gleaming in the dim light of the office. Why had they sent Barnett? Why not Komack? What was Komack telling the others at that exact moment? What would he do when--  _ if _ they took his ship away? What was he going--

Hands on his shoulders startled him, and his head jerked up in alarm. It was Bones, grasping him firmly by the biceps and calling his name. 

“Sorry,” he said, trying desperately to focus. “Sorry, what?” 

“I said ‘do you want to go home?’” Bones repeated himself, tone clearly stating that he had asked several times. 

“Yes… no… I don’t--” Jim stammered, “I should--” 

“Ok,” Bones said firmly. “Here’s what we’re gonna do: we’re gonna head back home, and we’re gonna get you some food. It’s almost noon, so let’s get some lunch, and then we’re going to wait. Ok?” 

Jim gnawed at his lip nervously. “God, what if they--” 

“They won’t,” Bones insisted. 

“They wouldn’t dare,” Uhura growled. 

“I am inclined to agree with the others,” Spock said. “The outcome will almost certainly be in our favor.” 

_ Our _ favor. Oh,  _ God, _ this wasn’t just about him, it was his friends. They had put their jobs, their careers, their livelihood on the line for him.  _ Why?  _

They returned to his apartment together. Their constant reassurances did little to soothe him as they awaited the decision. He choked down what little food he could on a nervous stomach, and they did an admirable job trying to distract him from the situation. 

It wasn’t until the message came through, via PADD, not communicator, with his newly minted commission papers attached, that he felt the vice around his chest loosen and felt able to breathe again. 

The relief lasted for less than five minutes; then, the message from Komack came through. 

Lifting the communicator to his ear, he listened to the admiral snarl and rant about how he was still on probation, and was not to put a single toe out of line, all of which he could have taken with a grain of salt. 

Then, Komack growled, “Your father’s name won’t get you anywhere anymore, Kirk. Don’t count on his legacy to defend you down the line.” 

Jim wasn’t sure if Komack was referring to George Kirk or Christopher Pike. 

As the sting of grief caught in his throat, Jim wasn’t sure he knew the distinction, himself. 

It was then that he realized he had missed the funeral. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> "Dlya kapitana"- для капитана- For the captain
> 
> CFTs- Combat Fitness Tests- Physical aptitude tests used by the US Marine Corps to determine if an officer is physically ready for duty. Obviously, the tests will have adapted by the 22nd century, but this was the closest approximation that my editor and I could find for accuracy's sake. 
> 
> Spock and Cocoa- In DS9, Quark offers a Vulcan a choice of port or chocolate, which has led to a widely believed fandom theory that chocolate can have intoxicating effects on Vulcans. Spock also at one point says that his people have been "spared the dubious benefits of alcohol'. Furthermore, in the novelization of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, Spock has a line about sugar having ill effects on Vulcans. Being that Spock is half Vulcan, I'm uncertain if alcohol would have an effect on him; Vulcan port does exist, but I'm uncertain how they would come by it in a timeline where Vulcan has been destroyed within the last year, and went with cocoa because it's cuter.


	7. August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim continues to physically improve, but his emotional state struggles. He and Bones have a long overdue--and difficult-- discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say it every chapter, but honestly I couldn't do this without ensanguind's invaluable edits. This time around, she straight up wrote entire paragraphs to add in, and I am eternally grateful. I felt weird about the chapter and I was holding off on posting it, and then she came in and it was like magic: readable chapter. Bless you, my friend.

“Protein bars again,” Hikaru said, voice hushed as he left the apartment. “I swear that’s all he eats these days.”

"His appetite has been off for a bit… so long as he’s eating, I’m happy,” Len replied, equally quiet so as not to be overheard.

“Is he… ok?” Hikaru asked, just as Len began closing the door to the apartment he shared with Jim. “He seems down.”

Reaching his hand between the door and frame, Len halted its progress and sighed knowingly, like he had been expecting the question for a while. Sulu felt a rush of concern.

“Calm down,” Len said, clearly having read something in his expression. Glancing over his shoulder and letting the door close behind him, he stepped into the hallway with the pilot. “He’s fine physically. Honestly, he’s gettin’ close to ready to take his CFTs-- which would be a major step towards getting him re-cleared for duty-- but I’m making him wait since repairs won’t be done on the _Enterprise_ for another four or five months anyway.”

“Well, that’s good,” Hikaru replied, relieved. He rocked on his heels, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “So what _is_ going on? He hasn’t really been acting like himself since--”

McCoy crossed his arms across his chest, rubbing at his chin as he said, “Since the hearing, I know.”

“I thought it would make him happy, getting reinstated, but he’s been--” Hikaru trailed off, not knowing how to describe the captain’s mood of the past several weeks.

They had each noticed the mood swings during their time with him. Hikaru suspected that at least a portion of Jim’s darker mood of late was due to the fact that McCoy had them on a rotating schedule of “visiting” the apartment when he wasn’t around. Jim wasn’t stupid, and they all knew that he understood exactly what was going on.

Jim Kirk did not appreciate being coddled.

Sometimes he would smile and joke, but it always seemed just the wrong side of forced. Other times, he was silent, staring into space for long periods of time. The worst by far was the irritability. He did a good job refraining from unleashing his frustrations on any of them, but there were times when he would snap at them, the words carrying more bite than he would usually use. Whenever this happened, he would always immediately deflate, apologize profusely, and then excuse himself to his room. Whoever he’d snapped at usually wouldn’t see him again that day.

It was frustrating at best, and more than a little concerning. They all tried to be patient, but it was getting harder the longer it went on. Uhura was the most outspoken about it; apparently she had flat out told Kirk that if he was going to keep acting like a _faelirh ch'susse-thrai_ , then she was going to hide McCoy’s medkit and blame Jim.

“Honestly,” McCoy admitted, “I think it’s just all catchin’ up with him. He was so focused on getting back on his feet in the hospital, and then on getting his captaincy back-- I think this is the first time he’s had a chance to really process everything.”

Hikaru supposed that made sense. He probably wouldn’t be handling things too well, either, if he were in Kirk’s shoes.

With a quick grasp of his arm, McCoy continued. “He’ll be ok. Give him some time.”

“Sure thing, doc,” Hikaru said, with a mock salute.

* * *

 

Re-entering the apartment, Len glanced around, but didn’t see any sign of Jim in any of the common areas; the kitchen, living room, and hallway were clear.

“Hey,” he called out, removing his shoes and setting them on the rack near the door.

“Hey,” Jim replied flatly from his room, where Len heard him rustling in his closet for something.

“How’s Sulu?” Len asked, making his way to Jim’s open door and leaning against the frame.

Jim was kneeling on the floor in sweatpants and a t-shirt, earbuds hanging loosely around his shoulders.

“Fine,” Jim replied, pulling out a box of the godawful protein ration bars he always kept on hand before finding his shoes.

“Good, good,” Len murmured. Jim was in a mood about something, that was for sure.

He’d heard from basically everyone at this point that they were concerned about Jim’s emotional state and his increasingly frequent mood swings. He had been incredibly worried at first that they were some possible side effect of the transfusion-- he had only been half kidding when he’d asked Jim when he woke up if he was feeling particularly aggressive-- and had run some tests after taking a blood sample under the guise of making sure Jim’s cell counts were remaining stable. He had a feeling Jim hadn’t been fooled for an instant, but he hadn’t protested beyond an exasperated sigh and Len wasn’t going to poke the bear.

“How are _you_?” he pressed, gently.

Jim rolled his eyes with a huff, sitting on the bed and putting on his shoes one at a time.

“Fine,” he repeated, a hint more irritation creeping into his tone.

Len hesitated briefly before asking, “Goin’ for a run?”

Jim shouldered past him, making his way to the kitchen.

“Yup.”

Yesterday it had been push-ups; the day before that, sit ups. Apparently, today he was back to running.. Jim had himself on a strict regimen. Len didn’t comment beyond the occasional warning to drink some more water; food wasn’t something Jim usually needed his help with, past the infrequent reminder. He understood better than most the function of food in sustaining the body, and he made sure to balance his exercising with the proper amount of proteins and sugars.

Len _did_ wish he’d eat something other than those bars, though. They were adequate at providing the proper nutrients, but a good hot meal would do the kid wonders. Overall, Jim was doing well and wanted to get back up to his usual stamina and Len didn’t blame him. Already, there had been marked improvement.

His shoulders and arms were slowly filling out more with a combination of weight lifting and upper body work, and according to Jim’s reports he was back to a nine minute mile. Len had told him that was great; Jim had replied that he needed to shave of three minutes with a rather vehement expletive.

As Jim filled a bottle with water in the kitchen, Len hovered in Jim’s doorway, glancing around at his ridiculously tidy room. The kid was always neat, but this was absurd. The bed was made to military standard, hospital corners tucked so tightly he was pretty sure he could bounce a quarter over the surface. The comforter was folded and neatly placed at the end of the bed. The bookshelf was organized alphabetically, and the closet-- impeccable.

It was like Jim was waiting on a surprise inspection of his quarters, and it set Len’s teeth on edge.

He’d seen it before-- this tendency toward obsessive-compulsive behaviors, in patients recovering from trauma. They were searching for some semblance of control in their lives after feeling so _out_ of control, and for Jim to be reacting this way-- the idea that Jim might feel so _lost_ \-- was concerning.

Len had seen first hand most of Jim’s coping techniques over the years. At the academy, whenever he had gotten angry or needed to blow off steam, he found a punching bag, or he went out drinking. Both resulted in split knuckles and a hell of a headache the next day. After he had become captain, he stuck to the punching bags. He dealt with stress by working until his body gave out, and even then he’d try to keep going.

When it came to sadness and pain, Jim typically sulked for a while-- a few days, tops-- before Len could coax out of him what was bothering him. Once he could get Jim to enter problem solving mode, things usually resolved themselves relatively quickly.

Never before had he been like this. Not for this long.

He heard Jim’s footsteps recede as he headed for the door and hurried to the living area just in time to catch him before he left.

“When d’ya think you’ll be back?” he asked, and Jim halted in the doorway, back to him. “No rush, just--”

“Later,” Jim answered vaguely.

Rolling his eyes Len replied, “Obviously, but any idea? One hour? Two?”

“God,” Jim hissed under his breath. “ _Later_. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

Len didn’t particularly feel like an argument right now, he decided. He shook his head.

“Nope. Take your time, kid. Call me if you need anything.”

Len knew he wouldn’t call, but Jim nodded all the same, and hurried out the door, footsteps pounding down the hallway as he took off running.

Maybe a bit of space would do him some good.

* * *

Jim ran.

He ran until his lungs felt like they were going to burst and his legs burned with the strain. He ran until he physically couldn’t run anymore, collapsing to his knees on a grassy patch of dirt next to the trail he had been running on and panting harshly for several moments.

And it had only been three fucking miles.

He managed a paltry three _fucking_ miles before collapsing like an asthmatic in basic.

With a growl of frustration, he ripped out a patch of grass and threw it in a fit of impotent rage, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. He took a swig of his water, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat and clearing his head.

He was doing better, but it still wasn’t good enough to clear him for duty.

 _Weak_.

Always too weak, somehow. Always coming up just a little short. He wasn’t typically so pessimistic, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wouldn’t be able to fight this, to scramble back up to where he’d been just months before.

What if he failed? Did it matter?

With a sigh, he pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and let himself fall backwards, lying on the damp grass with his knees pointed to the sky. Dropping his arms limply to his sides, stretched as far as they could go, he stared up at the darkening clouds. It was going to rain soon.

He found he didn’t particularly care.

He didn’t care about much of anything, these days.

He had just felt… off. He had been so focused on getting better, and in the hospital, with nothing else to distract him, it had been easy to see his progress and to take pride in his accomplishments, however small they were, especially with the constant encouragement of his friends, but now…

He wasn’t sick anymore, and their constant hovering was an annoyance more than a comfort. He had been so excited to get out of the hospital, and then they sprang it on him when he got to the apartment that he had a roommate and babysitter all in one.

 _Yippee_.

Maybe that wasn’t altogether fair to Bones. He knew the man meant well, but everyone else in the crew got their _own_ apartment. Why did he have to share with someone who started each day by reminding him to _“take it easy”,_ and who had him under constant supervision, while simultaneously telling him that he was fine? Bones seriously needed to pick one already, because the double talk was driving him insane.

Jim wasn’t trying to be an asshole to everyone around him. He really wasn’t-- but it was as though all of the stress that had been keeping him preoccupied fell away with his reinstatement; without that hovering over him, it felt like his brain had just decided to open the floodgates-- _time to be upset all the time now, surprise!_

He had missed Pike’s funeral.

He had missed his chance to mourn, and without it, he didn’t know when to _stop_.  

It hurt. It was a physical ache deep in his chest, crawling up his throat until at times he thought it would choke him. There were days when he thought that maybe he’d be ok again, somehow; but there were also days where he thought that nothing could ever fix this and no one around him seemed to understand. Those were the days when his grief expressed itself in anger, and he _hated_ them.

He hated taking out his anger on the people around him. He had grown up with that, and he had sworn never to inflict it on anyone else. Of course, he would never raise a hand to any of them, but he was uncomfortable with it nonetheless-- he hated knowing that those around him felt the need to walk on eggshells, like he might lose it at any moment.

Exercise helped. The endorphins improved things, if only for a short while; but he still wasn’t back to full capacity and it irked him to no end. That usually set off a spiral of self depreciation, which usually led to him laying on his bed being useless until he felt a bit better.

Two months in, and he was so sick of feeling like this. It was probably only a matter of time before everyone else got sick of him _being_ like this.

The first drops of rain hit him, hard and cold in the late summer evening.

Sighing, he dragged himself to his feet and began the walk home.

* * *

Jim returned home a little over an hour after he left, soaking wet and sulking.

“Christ, kid--” Len exclaimed, leaping from the couch to retrieve towels from the bathroom, “you’re gonna catch a cold!”

He heard the exasperation in Jim’s voice when he called after him, “I’m fine, Bones,” but chose to ignore it in favor of getting him dry and warm before he got sick.

Returning to the living room, he tossed a towel at Jim, who was removing his sodden shoes. The towel landed squarely on his head, blonde hair wet with rain. Jim squawked indignantly, snatching the green terry cloth in his hand and yanking it down so he could see, even as Len wrapped a second towel around his shoulders.

“Oh my god, it’s _fine_ , Bones-- it’s _summer_ ,” Jim protested as Len quickly moved to the kitchen to get something hot for him to drink.

“Summer or not, it’s been unseasonably cold and you’re soaked,” Len retorted. “Dry off, change your clothes, sit down and shut up.”

He ignored the replicator, opting to make tea the old fashioned way, as Jim grumbled and made his way to his room to change.

He emerged moments later, wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a fresh t-shirt, one of the towels still draped around his neck, catching the droplets that still fell from his hair.

“Happy?” Jim spat, and Len had the sneaking suspicion that he _wanted_ to start a fight, for whatever reason.

“Thrilled,” Len responded, his tone even, refusing to take the bait. He’d be nipping this little mood in the bud, that was for sure.

Jim shuffled over to the nearest armchair, throwing himself down onto it and tucking his feet under his legs.

“So,” Len began, walking slowly to reseat himself on the couch facing Jim, “good run?”

“Fine,” Jim replied, gaze fixed on the corner of the coffee table in front of them as he ruffled his hair with the towel, making it stick up in several directions. “Still not as fast as I need to be.”

“You’ll get there.”

“Yeah,” Jim scoffed, something dark in his tone that had Len rearing back slightly in surprise. “Eventually.”

They sat in uncharacteristically tense silence for several moments. Jim had yet to look at Len, and he was at a loss for what to say.

Finally, deciding to just bite the bullet, he said quietly, “Everyone’s worried about you, y’know.”

Len watched Jim closely for his reaction. At first, he clenched his teeth, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he took his frustration out on his teeth; after a moment, though, Jim slumped where he sat. The fight drained out of him, shoulders curling forward and head hanging low as he sighed heavily.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

The tea kettle started to bubble in the background.

Len faltered only slightly-- was he going to give in that easily? Jim was more worn down than he had realized-- before he murmured, “Not lookin’ for an apology, kid, just… talk to me. What’s going on? This isn’t like you.”

Immediately, the walls started going back up.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jim said, wringing the towel in his hands as he studiously continued avoiding eye contact. “It’s fine. It’ll pass; I’ve just been in a bit of a funk lately.

With a breathy laugh, Len said, “You can say that again.” He was trying for levity-- but he knew as soon as the words left his mouth that it was too soon; Jim was mighty sore over something, and it had gone far too long without being addressed. “That wasn’t called for--” he began apologetically, knowing that Jim wouldn’t take his comment well; but there was no taking it back.

Jim was immediately on the defensive, throwing his head back in frustration and growling out, “I said I was sorry, and I’ll apologize to everyone else, too. What else do you want me to do?”

But Len wasn’t deterred.

“I already told you: I want you to talk to me. Clearly something’s botherin’ you, and I’d like to help, if you’d let me.”

“Not right now, Bones,” Jim warned, the slightest edge in his voice.

“Then when?”

“I don’t know… just not now.”

“Is this because of the nonsense with the admiralty? Look, I know they put you through hell, but everything worked out in our favor and--”

Jim stood abruptly, the towel falling into a heap against the arm of the chair, and made his way towards the kitchen.

“No, it’s not about that just drop it, Bones, it’s fine--”

“Y’know,” Bones cut him off, turning to watch him over the couch back. “You keep saying that, but you sure as hell aren’t _acting_ like you’re fine.”

Jim began pacing, throwing his arms out to the side angrily. The tea kettle began to hiss with steam, the whistling low at first but growing exponentially in volume with each passing moment.

“Then how _am_ I acting, Bones?” Ticking off on his fingers as he went, Jim continued: “I’ve been keeping up with my training, I’ve been eating, I’ve been sleeping, and I’ve been--”

“You’ve been acting like someone who needs help and doesn’t know how to ask for it.”

Jim’s expression was stricken. Len had hid a nerve.

Slowly, he offered, “Jim, if you need to talk about what happened to you, to process it… even if it’s not with me, we can--"

Jim waved him off.

“It’s not--” Jim insisted. “It’s not about _me.”_ He looked like he was desperate to make Len understand, but unwilling to say what was actually bothering him.

The sound of the kettle grew shrill and uncomfortable, but Len studiously ignored it. He wasn’t about to give Jim the opportunity to end the conversation now that it had begun.

_Work with me here, Kid._

“Then what _is_ it--” Len began.

And suddenly, he understood.

Christ, _how_ had he _not_ understood?

_It’s not about me._

“This is about Pike, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.

The tea kettle screamed.

* * *

Jim froze, eyes wide, gaping at Len; torn between relief and panic. Slowly, his gaze drifted towards the tea kettle shrieking in the kitchen.

His movements were sluggish and he felt strange, like he was underwater. He stumbled on the shallow rise where the wood floor changed to tile. Catching himself, he made his way to the stovetop and turned off the burner. Gradually, the whistling quieted and ceased. He stared numbly at the steam rising from the spout.

Bones knew. He knew what was bothering him, and Jim knew he should feel relieved; to some extent, he did. But he also realized that this meant he’d have to talk about it and he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to give in to this pain that had been lurking in the background of his life for the past few months. He didn’t want to acknowledge, out loud, once and for all, that Pike was never coming back. He’d never see him again.

_“I believe in you. That if anybody deserves a second chance, it’s Jim Kirk.”_

He clutched the edge of the countertop so tightly that his knuckles turned white.  He tried to breathe deeply and calm himself before he had to return to the living room and convince Bones he was ok.

Who was he kidding? It was _Bones_. He didn’t have a shot in hell.

A strange sound escaped him, a strangled, breathy gasp that had his shoulders hitching.

_Shit._

No turning back now.

A hand landed gently on his shoulder, and he jumped, abruptly coming back to himself.

“Jim--”

“ _Please_ , Bones,” he begged, keeping his voice low and hoping it wouldn’t break. It didn’t, but the sound was thick with emotion. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Bones was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, “I know you don’t. I don’t blame you. But I think you need to if you want to pass your psych evals.”

Trust Bones to know right where to hit him.

“Those are months off--” he protested, but Bones cut him off.

“It’s been weeks, Jim, and it’s not getting any better. We’re concerned about you, and I think you should at least try.”

Taking a moment to breathe, trying hard to calm himself before he responded, Jim said, a bit more forcefully, “And I'm _telling_ you, not right now.”

Bones was quiet for a time and-- for a moment-- Jim thought he'd gotten out of the conversation.

No such luck.

"I know-- to some extent-- how you feel…” Bones began, hesitantly. “I lost my dad, too, y'know."

Dragging a hand down his face, slumping a little heavier over the counter, Jim grumbled, “Pike wasn't my dad.”

_“It’ll be alright, son.”_

“I know,” Bones replied insistently, leaning against the counter beside him and crossing his arms on his chest. “But he was a big part of your life, and he was a far sight closer to it than Frank ever was.”

* * *

 

Usually, Jim just shoved down emotion until it had to be let out somehow, and when the opportunity presented itself, it was explosive-- and often, angry. They were similar in that respect. He knew Jim would never hurt himself-- or anyone else-- so oftentimes he didn’t let himself get too worried when something was wrong.

This time was different. He had been waiting weeks for Jim to tire himself out, or for something to hit him just right and break the dam of emotions he had to be feeling, but he just kept getting more irritable, more withdrawn. Normally, Jim would have broken long ago, but everything was different this time around.

He wasn’t physically as strong as he usually was, nor emotionally. The long stay in the hospital had affected him in both respects, and he’d been a bit off since his release.

After everything that had happened, he knew Jim was dealing with more than a few bad memories that had resurfaced. He’d been battling with his anxiety over hospitals since he’d regained consciousness, and while he’d handled it admirably, the months he had been admitted had been long and hard on him.

The protein bars were a sure enough sign of that. Jim always resorted to those horrendous things when he couldn’t stomach the idea of food. They had been what he ate after Tarsus, to readapt to eating regularly and, while he always had some on hand, it seemed he was damn near hoarding the things, now.

He had already been having the occasional nightmare, which was bad enough-- then the admiralty had come along and threatened to take away everything he’d worked for. That had sparked a whole new wave of panic in his friend but again-- he’d kept it well hidden from his friends. It wasn’t so easy to hide the signs of sleepless nights from Len, though. He knew what to look for and he saw the kid everyday; he knew Jim wasn’t sleeping particularly well.

All of that aside, a lot of Jim’s stoicism in the recent months had stemmed from the fact that things were-- more likely than not-- going to be ok. He had known he’d be released from the hospital eventually, made consistent progress, and with Len handling his care he’d been less anxious than he could have been had another doctor been in charge. There had been good and bad days, but the end goal had always been clear.  His “I don’t believe in no win scenarios” policy had kept him going through the ordeal with the admirals, and everything had worked out there, as well.

But now something was wrong and it wasn’t getting any better.

Sometimes, he could get Jim to open up with pretty minimal effort. Sometimes, it took a little push. Sometimes, he had to get him pissed as hell.

Apparently, it was one of those days.

So he pushed.

The moment Len brought up Frank, Jim froze in shock, every muscle in his body tensing. He was practically the physical embodiment of fight or flight wherever his stepfather was concerned. Len hated that the mere mention of the man could incite such a reaction in Jim.

“What the _hell_ does that have to do with-- are you-- _Jesus_ . Don’t talk to me about Frank right now. I’m serious, Bones. _Don’t_ ,” he warned-- the anger in his voice barely contained, hands trembling where he gripped the granite. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Len really hated doing this to the kid, but he could see how much Jim was hurting and if they had any shot at him passing his psychs within the next few months, he had to grieve properly and acknowledge that he wasn’t alright. The fastest way to get him there, in Len’s experience, was to force him to admit what was bothering him.

And that, Len was willing to bet good money, was the death of Christopher Pike. The closest thing to a father that Jim had ever known.

“Don't I?” Len asked, in a tone that smacked of pat _‘understanding’_ \-- standard therapy tripe.  It always irked Jim to no end. Crossing his arms against his chest, Len continued, “Like I said… I lost my father, too.”

"No, you don’t,” Jim retorted. “Sure, you lost your dad-- you lost your dad who _loved_ you, and was _there_ for you and taught you to ride a bike, and read you stories and all of that shit fathers are supposed to do before he got sick when you were-- what? 22? 23?" Jim said, turning slowly around to face him directly for confirmation.

“23,” Len conceded, gently. “You’re 26. Doesn’t really matter how old you are. It always hurts, kid.”

Jim looked momentarily guilty.

“I’m not saying it doesn’t,” Jim continued, softer, “and I’m sorry that you lost your dad. I’m sure that sucked… but it's-- it's just not the same,” he finished lamely, shrugging weakly. “You lost your dad, I lost-- _George Kirk: Starfleet Hero._ A man I never met.”

“I know,” Len responded matter of factly, with a shrug of his own. “Up til now, you've never really mourned a father.”

After several long moments, Jim said, “I mourned for my father, Bones.”

Jim’s tone was more tired than angry, but the undertone of frustration was enough to let Len know that he was on the verge of falling apart.

_There we go, kid. C’mon._

“No,” he said, keeping that same patient tone that he knew Jim hated even more than yelling. “You haven’t. You’ve mourned the idea of what might have been-- how could you not? You were a baby. You dealt with your mom’s grief, sure, and Sam’s-- and you grew up with this idea of the wonderful father you might have had in comparison to--”

“ _Frank_ ,” Jim finished bitterly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and leaning heavily back against the counter next to Len again, scuffing at the floor with the toe of his sock. It needed no further clarifying; Len had seen the scars left behind on Jim’s body and the lingering effects of the ones the bastard had left on his mind.

“Jim,” Len sighed. “I’m sorry to bring all this up, I just mean-- this is new for you. It’s horrible and it’s gonna hurt like hell, but you can’t just pretend that Pike wasn’t a huge part of your life. You have to face this, kid. There’s no right or wrong way to feel here; and there’s no standard to compare it to because you _haven’t_ been through this before-- I know you mourned your father… but Pike’s death is different. You were given stories of a perfect father that you never got to know, and you were treated horribly by the man who should have fulfilled that role for you. But Pike? You knew him. You spent time with him. You had him in your life, and now you don’t.”

“Chris _wasn’t_ my dad,” Jim reiterated, weaker this time.

“Family ain’t always blood, kid.”

Jim glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Len could tell that, as much as he tried to deny it, Jim was desperate for confirmation that what he was feeling was valid.

After growing up the way he had, Jim often hid his emotions like sins, barricading himself up in his room to feel silently-- and alone-- whenever possible. Len kept a close eye on him when things weren’t particularly great, watching for opportune moments to strike up discussions and make sure he was doing alright.

“He’s gone.” Jim whispered, barely audible.

And there it was-- the one thing that would never go back to normal. The one thing that sent Jim reeling back to his days where nothing mattered except for survival-- and seeking comfort and support in a friend wasn’t part of the picture.

Pike wasn’t coming back. It wasn’t all going to be ok in the end.

In that one aspect, things would be forever different.

Len had never been particularly close to Christopher Pike, but Jim had been since day one. He should have seen this coming, but in all the commotion of saving Jim, he’d damn near forgotten that the Admiral had died-- and Jim was suffering for it.

“He believed in me,” Jim continued beside him, voice breaking slightly on the words. “He believed that I could be-- _more_. More than just some dumb delinquent hick rotting away in a bar in Iowa. I think he was the first one that ever did.”

Len didn’t think; he _knew._ He would be forever grateful that it had been Pike who had broken up the infamous bar fight that led to Jim Kirk’s enrollment in Starfleet. He was sure many others felt the same.

“If it wasn’t for him--” Jim trailed off, shaking his head, too long hair falling into his eyes. He swiped roughly at his cheek, sniffling quietly as he turned his head away.

“What?” Len coaxed gently, not wanting Jim to clam up now that he was finally letting out some of his grief.

Jim hesitated slightly before, tears finally spilling over, he choked out, “I owe him _everything._  He went to bat for me-- he _saved_ me. And he died knowing what a screw up I am.”

Len blinked, startled by the admission.

 _Jesus_ , was _that_ what Jim had been carrying for all this time?

“No,” he insisted. “Not a chance. He was _so_ proud of you, Jim, anyone could see--”

“Proud?” Jim said, disbelieving. “Proud of _what?_ Of how I took all the trust he placed in me and got it thrown right back in his face? That I managed to get myself demoted-- and damn near sent back to the academy-- save for the fact that he, yet again, put his neck on the line for me? His last words to me-- b-before the meeting-- were that ‘if anyone deserves a second chance,’ it’s me.” Looking to Len pleadingly, shoulders slumping as he sighed out his pain and frustration, he croaked, “How many second chances do I get, man? Why didn’t he get _one_?”

As his face crumbled, Len realized he had never truly seen Jim mourn.

It was devastating.

He brought a shaking hand up to cover his eyes as he began sobbing, uncontrollable tears streaming from the corners of his eyes as his breath caught in his throat and he choked. He tried desperately to curb his cries, clenching his teeth tightly and folding over himself slightly as he tried to hide, ashamed.

To hell with that.

In two quick strides, Len reached his friend and tried to pull his hand away from his face. Jim wouldn’t budge, intent on hiding his face from view. Undeterred, Len hauled Jim into a hug and held him tightly against his chest. Jim was only the slightest bit shorter than Len, barely an inch, but in that moment he felt small, and Len held him all the tighter.

“I gotcha,” he soothed, again and again, his hand on the back of Jim’s head holding him fast to his shoulder as Jim, wrapping his arms around Len and clutching at the back of his shirt tightly with trembling hands, turned his face into his neck and cried.

“I didn’t get to-- to go to his funeral,” Jim stammered, sobs wracking his frame. “I didn’t get to say g-goodbye-- I didn’t get to tell him--”

“Shhhh,” Len hushed him gently, rubbing his back. “He knew, kid.”

For several, long minutes, he simply held Jim as he fell apart. There would be time later for reassurances and further discussion, but this was the first step towards Jim properly grieving.

He’d put him back together before; this time would be no different.

“He knew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> faelirh ch'susse-thrai- Romulan for moron or idiot; a severe insult. 
> 
> OCD Post Trauma- This is a very real thing that happens to people. Seeking the sensation of control, people will go a bit overboard with different things. For Jim, being in a military setting and struggling with the loss of a father figure/CO, I went with inspection ready status at all times. I sincerely hope that no one takes offence at the use of this condition- none was meant.


	8. November- Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's physical health continues to improve, and after beginning to grieve Pike, his mental health is as well. He's ready for his psych evals, or so he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to ensanguind for their edits and suggestions!

November rolled in faster than expected and colder than usual, adding a nip to the California air and clouding the skies. There was a bite to the wind, and a dry quality to the air that irritated the lungs and dried out the eyes-- and Len was out running in it.

Son of a bitch, how did he get here?

His lungs were going to explode, he was damn near sure of it, and he couldn’t quite stifle the cough that the dry air catching in his throat brought on.

Beside him, Jim laughed airily. He turned mid stride and jogged backwards, still outpacing Len, who was huffing and trailing behind. He ran in place as Len stopped entirely, hands on his knees, panting and-- for the nine millionth time that morning-- cursing James Tiberius Kirk with every fiber of his being.

Following their initial discussion about Pike, he’d gotten Jim to open up to him a bit more about things that were bothering him. One major issue for Jim was that he felt like no one trusted him to take care of himself anymore. Len could admit that they had been a bit overbearing in their attempts to help, and had agreed to talk to everyone and let them know they could back off. He had been trying to do the same with varying levels of success.

He had explained to Jim that he didn’t think he was incapable of living on his own-- and that their roommate situation was primarily for his own peace of mind-- which had made Jim far more agreeable to the entire thing. Jim had admitted that he was nervous about his CFTs, and Len had assured him that he was well ahead of schedule.

For both of their benefit, Len had suggested that instead of Jim’s strict solo regimen he begin working out with others, both to improve his mood and to take some of the pressure off.

And now it was biting him in the ass.  Conveniently, no one else was available and Jim had somehow coerced Len into going on a run with him.  

“What’s the matter, old man?” Jim taunted, bouncing lightly on his toes and pumping his arms to keep his limbs moving as he waited for Len to catch his breath. “Can’t keep up?”

“I hate you,” Len groused. “This should be outlawed.”

“You do not hate me,” Jim replied easily. “And what are you talking about? You’re a doctor, shouldn’t you be encouraging physical fitness?”

“I am,” Len agreed, “and I do. But how the hell you can _enjoy_ running is beyond me.”

Jim laughed again, throwing his arms out wide; breath visible in the chilly air.

“What’s not to like?” he asked genuinely. “Fresh air, outdoors, the adrenaline--”

“Cold-- but also sweaty. Rolled ankles just waiting to happen,” Len interrupted, smirking.

Jim scoffed, smiling widely and rolling his eyes. “You are such a buzzkill, you know that?” He informed Len.

“I aim to please,” Len deadpanned in return, glancing at his watch. “3 miles...14 minutes 19 seconds. I’d say you’re back up to speed.”

Jim threw both hands into the air with a _whoop,_ his face positively glowing with excitement.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, raising an arm in a request for a high five.

Len reluctantly obliged, weakly raising one of his own arms. He gave Jim an indulgent smile, shaking his head. “God help us all.”

“You good?” Jim asked as Len finally straightened to his full height, having caught his breath-- and ceased his complaining.

“Yeah, kid, I’m good,” he replied, taking a moment to enjoy how truly happy Jim was with this accomplishment.

“Good,” Jim said with a smirk that immediately made Len wary; it was far too devious. “Then I’ll race you back to the apartment.” And with that, Jim took off like a shot in the direction from which they had come.

“You little--” Len stammered, jogging after him. “You, Jim Kirk, are a _cheater._ ”

Jim’s laughter carried in his tone as he called back over his shoulder, “Says the _loser!”_

Len couldn’t be bothered with frustration.

The past few months, Jim had smiled more honestly, laughed more openly, and been generally more at ease.

He was getting better.

Taking a deep breath and bracing himself for the sore muscles he knew would plague him later, Len picked up his speed.

* * *

Jim’s good mood carried through up to his psych evaluations.

The morning of his scheduled appointment, he woke up feeling surprisingly at ease about it all. He had thought he would be nervous, but he found that he honestly wasn’t. Most of his pre-’fleet record was still on lockdown, so the questions would primarily be focused on recent events: Narada, Vulcan, his command,-- and loss thereof-- Pike, the long recovery from his “injury”, and the like.

Jim didn’t know if he’d ever stop grieving Pike, not completely. But Bones had assured him that any psychiatrist worth their salt would consider that a “perfectly normal and healthy reaction to the loss of a mentor and friend,” and wouldn’t hold it against him.

He made his way to the office of the Starfleet approved psychiatrist well before he was scheduled, enjoying the time to himself as he wandered the city. He had never truly acclimated to city life. Riverside was a small, quiet town, and aside from his ill-fated years on Tarsus, he’d never really left it before enrolling at the academy. The bustle and sound was still a tad overwhelming to him, even all these years later. He vastly preferred the quiet hum and whistle of a starship. He couldn’t _wait_ to be back among the stars.

After today, he’d be one step closer.

The building was huge; the shadow hit him well before he reached the entrance. It loomed twenty stories high, and for the first time, he felt a twinge of anxiety over the upcoming meeting. Taking a deep breath to reassure himself, he squared his shoulders and climbed the steps to the front door.

After checking in at the front desk, he was escorted to a private office by a polite Orion receptionist in a sharp suit. Murmuring his thanks, he seated himself on the couch and settled in to wait.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The door swung open and he rose to greet the psychiatrist-- a small, critical looking woman dressed even more impeccably than her secretary in a suit and glasses-- hoping to make a good first impression right off the bat. He was not expecting to see Admiral Komack trailing behind her.

“Mr. Kirk,” the psychiatrist began, extending her hand to him in greeting. He took it, shaking it hesitantly as he eyed Komack. “I’m Dr. Maru, and I’ll be doing your evaluation today. I understand you’ve met Admiral Komack?”  

“I--” he stammered, eyes darting between the two before settling once again on Komack. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

She continued, seating herself at the desk as Komack took the chair opposite Jim’s own position. “I’m sorry for the unexpected diversion from protocol, but it was brought to my attention rather last minute that Admiral Komack has taken a special interest in this particular evaluation, and would like to oversee the evaluation as your commanding officer.”

“Special interest?” he asked in disbelief.

That son of a bitch.

“Yes,” the psychiatrist said, sounding ever so slightly apologetic. “You may, of course, decline. I understand that the circumstances are unusual. If you would like some more time to consider moving forward with the evaluation, given the situation, I’d be happy to reschedule for another time.”

Jim defiantly stared Komack down.

What was he doing?

“This doesn’t scream ‘unethical’ to you?” Jim asked lowly. Realizing his entire future could very well be riding on the support of the two people he was currently arguing with, he lightened his tone. “I just mean-- how can you be sure what I say is truthful if the appointment isn’t confidential?”

“Oh, I assure you, Mr. Kirk, this appointment and everything you say here will still be considered confidential. Mr. Komack is under legal requirement not to disclose anything heard in this room without necessary cause as required to protect yourself or others, as am I.”

Finally, Jim looked at her. “Then what’s the point?” he asked suspiciously.

“I-I’m sorry?” she questioned, taken aback.

“If it’s all confidential anyway, what does it matter what he hears? He can’t report anything back to anyone, right?”

She nodded. “That’s correct; unless, of course, anything you reveal directly poses a threat to yourself or others, as I said.”

“Pardon me, Dr. Maru, could I have a word with Kirk in private? To explain the situation?” Komack asked, dripping with politeness.

“Of course, Admiral,” she said, and made her way out of the office.

Jim waited a few moments after the door closed to speak, sitting on the edge of the couch.

“You realize this is insane, right?” He asked incredulously, leaning his elbows on his knees and picking absently at a hangnail. “You can’t just--”

“I think you’ll find that I can, Kirk,” Komack interrupted him, scooting forward in his chair, his voice low “. The only reason I’m telling you any of this, mind, is because you already know about the existence of Section 31. Marcus was a traitor in more than one aspect, it seems. After his death, I was promoted to head of 31 and s such, I’ve been given authority to investigate the--” here, he paused skeptically-- “‘ _Harrison’_ incident.  And the one with the most information on that-- is you.”

Jim scoffed in disgust.

“I don’t know what it is you’re hoping to find out here, Sir, but I don’t think you’re gonna find much that hasn’t already been officially logged.”

Jim knew how to keep his mouth shut. He’d gotten damn good at it, first with Frank, then on Tarsus. He could handle pain, and he knew his way around interrogation techniques. He knew a manipulative conversation when he saw one, and he could talk himself in circles if he wanted to.

They’d gone over their stories a million times. He could do this.

God, he hoped he could do this.

Clenching his teeth, Jim hesitated only a moment. If he wanted his ship back, he had to play the game. Komack’s game, Komack’s rules.

“Fine,” he relented, reseating himself on the edge of the couch and interlacing his fingers. His foot tapped nervously against the floor. “Let’s do this.”

Komack smirked, rising to call the psychiatrist back into the room.

“Well, gentlemen, will we be proceeding today?” She asked, after sliding through the door and closing it behind her. At their nods, she continued, “Excellent! There really isn’t anything to be nervous about, Mr. Kirk, these evaluations are purely standard protocol.”

There was nothing standard about this. Not in the least.

“There is just… one more thing, Mr. Kirk,” the psychiatrist continued. She sounded nervous, despite the careful professional veneer.

Tilting his head to glance at her out of the corner of his eye, he barely refrained from sighing.

Of course there was.

“What’s that?” he asked, glaring at Komack through his fringe. He refused to be cowed by that bastard anymore. Whatever he threw at him, he’d take.

The psychiatrist adjusted her glasses, fidgeting with the rims as she answered, “Due to the unusual nature of the circumstances that resulted in your extended medical leave, Starfleet has given special permission to administer, with your consent, a low dose of a sodium thiopental-- simply to lower your inhibitions slightly, make things a bit easier for you.”

_Easier, my ass._

One look at Komack and Jim knew “Starfleet” hadn’t done a damn thing. Section 31 operated above and beyond Starfleet’s control-- off the record and answering to no one but themselves. This was all Komack. Rules, laws, ethics-- all regulation went out the window.

“Really, sir? You’re resorting to truth serum? That’s how little you trust your officers?”

Komack bristled indignantly. “It’s not a _truth serum_ , Kirk, it’s a mild sedative-- meant to relax and nothing more, just a little nudge towards honesty. If you have nothing to hide, there’s truly nothing to worry about,” he said, crowing with condescension.

Jim nodded in disbelief, a hollow laugh escaping him at the absurdity of it all. Sodium thiopental had been outlawed as an interrogation tool in the 1900s for chrissake. It was still used as a sedative in rare cases, and Jim knew for a fact that if any record was left of this, it would be indeed be listed as a “sedative”, but _Jesus._ Komack really didn’t know when to quit.

“And if I refuse?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Then this meeting is over, Kirk,” Komack replied, lacing his tone with the facade of pity.  

_You absolute asshole._

That’s the way they wanted to play? Fine.

“Do it,” he said, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to expose his veins even as the psychiatrist opened a drawer of the desk and removed the supplies-- an old fashioned syringe and vial. Ancient methods called for ancient tools. “But first things first, _Admiral_ , you’d better make sure I’m not allergic to that shit. Would sure be awkward if I went off for my psych evals and wound up dying of asphyxiation from an illegal drug.”

Glaring at Jim, Komack said to the psychiatrist, “Check that if you would, Dr. Maru. And watch the attitude, Kirk.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” she agreed, rummaging in her desk drawer. She withdrew a communicator, setting it on the desktop and out of the way before retrieving a PADD from her desk, presumably to check Jim’s file.

Neither man moved as she reviewed his charts.

“I see nothing here to suggest that you would have an allergic reaction to anything in the sedative,” she said, laying the PADD down to rest on the corner of her desk.

“Then let’s get this show on the road,” Jim said, smiling darkly.

* * *

Len was mid shift at Starfleet Medical when he received a notification on his PADD that someone had accessed Jim’s file. As his primary care physician-- and emergency contact-- he was alerted whenever Jim received care. He’d set it up years ago to ensure that he could approve medications in case some hairbrained resident went off half-cocked and didn’t bother to do a basic chart check before administering hypos.

He’d known Jim had his psych evals today, but he hadn’t been expecting them to access his medical files. Standard psychiatric evaluation procedure for Starfleet included review of major trauma and history, but rarely were medical files pulled into the picture. He supposed it wasn’t too strange, given that Jim’s leave had been trauma related. He made a mental note to ask Jim about it that evening, presuming everything went well.

Twenty minutes later, he was mid appointment when his communicator jingled at his hip. Apologizing to the patient, he glanced at it briefly, but the signal was unknown. Rolling his eyes, he replaced it, and continued the appointment.

The second time it happened was more annoying than the first.

The fourth time was downright irritating.

Excusing himself from the room, he answered the call.

“This had better be good, because I am more than a little busy, here,” he growled. The line was silent. “Oh for the love of--”

Just as he was about to end the call, someone answered.

“B’nes?”

Eyes widening, Len clutched the communicator more firmly in his fist and immediately began walking towards the exit. Why was Jim calling him from an unknown signal? Where was his communicator? He sounded miserable.

“Jim?” he asked cautiously, “everything ok?”

“Mmm,” Jim mumbled, a long silence passing before he said, “takin’ a break.”

Jesus, the kid sounded half asleep. He must be having a hell of a time at that session.

“Yeah?” he asked, waving at the reception desk and mouthing that he had to step outside. “Break from the appointment?”

Jim snorted with laughter, loud and unrestrained.

“Interr’gation,” he replied, the word slurred and condensed.

Len smirked, amusement filtering through his worry for a moment. “It’s not really supposed to feel like an interrogation, kid,” he said, stepping through the glass doors and onto the sidewalk, hugging himself with his free arm against the chill in the air.

“Mmmmkay,” Jim mumbled agreeably. “But Komack’s ‘n assh’le.”

Len paused.

“What’s Komack got to do with it?” he asked suspiciously.

Jim didn’t reply beyond a soft humming sound.

“Jim, what’s Komack got to do with anything?” he repeated, already walking.

“B’nes, I think I f’cked up--”

A voice on Jim’s end interrupted them, tinny and thin. Komack’s voice.  

“What are you doing, Kirk?”

“‘M… ‘m callin’ Bones ,” Jim slurred. He sounded disoriented. “We’re on’a break--”

Len didn’t need to hear anymore.

“Jim, hold on, ok? I’m on my way.”

“Ok, B’nes.”

The psychiatrist’s office was four blocks from Starfleet Medical. Len took off at a run.

He was panting by the time he reached it, and damn near gave the poor receptionist a heart attack when he burst through the doors demanding to know where Dr. Maru’s office was.

She took some convincing, but when he explained that he was a doctor and one of his patient’s was in distress, she reluctantly led him to the office.

Manners be damned; he didn’t even bother knocking before he threw open the door.

Jim was sitting half slumped half propped against the arm of the couch, eyes unfocused and half open, head lolling as he turned to see who had entered. Rushing to his side, Len crouched and checked his pupils; they were pinpricks, sluggish in reaction to light and little change in size. Jim was heavily sedated-- and barely coherent at this point.

“B’nes?” he slurred, trying and failing to pull his chin from Len’s grasp.

“I’m here, kid,” he soothed, releasing his hold as Jim grew agitated. Fixing Komack with a glare, Len hissed, “What the fuck did you do to him?”

“Nothing without his express permission, I assure you,” the admiral answered as the psychiatrist rose cautiously to her feet, hands raised in placation to the stranger that had just about knocked her door off it’s hinges.

“Y-you know this man, Admiral?” she squeaked, gaze darting between Len and Jim.

“Yes, yes,” Komack said with an impatient wave of his hand. “Dr. Maru, this is Leonard McCoy, one of our doctor’s at Starfleet Medical, and CMO to Kirk here.”

Upon hearing his name, Jim jolted slightly, confused and unsure where to focus.

Christ…

“And as his doctor,” Len ground out, “I’m asking you: what the _fuck_ did you give him?”

“Really, there’s no need for this aggression, McCoy-- as I said, we had his permission to administer a mild sedative--”

“Mild?” Len exploded, before resting a hand on Jim’s shoulder as he flinched minutely. Lowering his voice, he continued, “You call this mild? Look at him, he’s barely awake! Did you even check before you gave him--”

They _had_ , he realized as he trailed off.

Son of a bitch, _that’s_ why they had accessed his medical records.

“You bastard--” he whispered, staring in disbelief at Komack. “You absolute--”

“See here, McCoy,” the admiral blustered, standing abruptly. “I am still a senior officer--”

“Not in this capacity, you ain’t,” Len fired right back, rising to meet him face-to-face. “In this capacity, I am _not_ his CMO and I am _not_ your subordinate. I am his doctor and you are legally required to consult me regarding any treatment or medications which-- in case this is goin’ over your heads-- you failed to do. I am not speaking to you as a Lieutenant Commander, I am speaking to you as a medical professional-- do you have _any_ idea what you could have done? He has an extensive history of severe allergic reactions--”

“And we consulted his medical files before administering anything, I assure you,” Dr. Maru chimed in, rounding her desk to stand between the two men, desperately trying to diffuse the situation.

“Fat lot of good that did if you’ve overdosed him!” he roared, sure to direct his ire at Komack rather than the short woman who was clearly uneasy with the entire situation. This entire thing reeked of his influence, and he was willing to bet that Komack had pulled more than a few strings to coerce and intimidate her into going along with this.

Jim stirred behind him, a disoriented whimper escaping him as he tried to stand, the noise clearly unsettling him.

As he slumped back against the couch, exhausted, he murmured out, “‘m sorry-- sorry.”

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose, Len tried to calm himself before taking care of Jim.

He had been tricked into an interrogation. He was drugged and disoriented and disturbed by raised voices and loud sounds-- and he was apologizing. Len could only imagine where his mind was at that moment.

Lowering his voice considerably, he pointed a finger at Komack and said, “We are not finished. I’ll deal with you later, I’m taking him home.” And to the psychiatrist, “I expect to receive a communiqué outlining what he was given, and at what dosage-- _immediately.”_

He turned to Jim, kneeling and resting a hand gently on his head before moving it to his shoulder. Jim’s eyelids fluttered, barely clinging to consciousness and he gazed blearily at Len.

“Hey, kiddo,” he whispered, knowing that Jim responded well to endearments when he wasn’t entirely lucid and not particularly caring if the other asshats in the room heard. “Let’s get you outta here, ok?”

“--S’not-- I d’n’t--”

“I know, kid, it’s ok,” he hushed as he pulled out his communicator.

Spock answered almost instantly. “Doctor McCoy?”

“Spock, I need a favor-- can you get Jim and me a ride back to our place and come help me out?” he said, keeping his voice low and a grounding hand on Jim’s arm, purposely ignoring Komack sputtering behind him.

Spock responded, “Of course. What is your location?”

Relaying the address, he ended the call.

The moment he did, Dr. Maru said softly, “Forgive me, I didn’t realize his reaction would be so strong--”

“Save it for the board, ma’am,” he said coldly. “Disregarding informed consent requirements, privacy and confidentiality laws, conflict of interest--If you think I’m not going to report this, you are _both_ half a brick short of a load.”

“Really, McCoy, there’s no need for these dramatics, Kirk consented and is perfectly safe--”

Eyes narrowing, he turned to look over his shoulder and hissed, “Consent under what circumstances? If you expect me to believe that he gave _informed consent_ \----”

“Believe what you wish,” Komack said airily, “But this appointment is not finished--”

“Oh no,” he bit out, “this _interrogation_ is more than finished, Admiral. Get out.”

Dr. Maru hesitated only briefly before grasping Komack lightly by the sleeve and saying quietly, “Perhaps that’s for the best, Admiral. He’s clearly unable to continue,” and guiding him towards the door.

In a moment of realization, Len called out, “Hold on a moment, Dr. Maru.”

She hesitated, hand already on the door as she made to close it.

“I’d like a words with you in private, if I may?” he said, absently moving his hand on Jim’s arm in a repetitive, soothing motion as the kid struggled to maintain consciousness.

Ignoring Komack’s protests, she nodded, closing the door behind her and locking it.

“Did he pass?” he asked simply.

“I-- yes, of course, he’s ready for duty,” she answered, “entirely mentally fit.”

Nodding in acceptance, he nodded towards the PADD on her desk, eyes never leaving Jim.

"If you could sign off on that and send it my way, I’d be mighty grateful.”

* * *

 

It had taken Spock no more than 10 minutes to procure transport and make his way to the address the doctor had indicated. Upon entry to the facility, he had not even had to ask for direction; a disgruntled looking receptionist had seen the Starfleet insignia on his breast and, in what he was sure was a violation of privacy laws, pointed him in the right direction without further question.

Upon reaching the indicated door, he knocked slightly, awaiting the call to enter.

“Who is it?” Doctor McCoy asked gruffly.

“Spock, doctor,” he answered. “May I enter?”

“Yeah, c’mon in.”

He pushed the door open slowly, not wanting to hit either the doctor or the captain should they be standing too close, but found he needn’t have worried. The doctor was crouched several feet away before an unconscious Jim, doing his best to keep him more or less upright.

“What happened?” he asked before he could help himself, moving swiftly to assist Doctor McCoy with his burden.

The doctor shook his head, anger radiating from him in waves.

“Let’s just get him outta here,” he sighed, standing with a groan. “I’ll need your help.”

Spock nodded.

“Of course, doctor. I presume you will inform me of the particulars at a later time?”

“Sure, just--” Doctor McCoy paused and rubbed tiredly at his forehead, “not now. Not here.”

With no further questions, Spock bent beside the arm of the couch, looping one of Jim’s arms over his shoulder as the doctor moved to do the same on his other side.

“I hope you parked close-- if anyone gets photos of this we’re gonna have a lot of questions to answer.”

Together, they hoisted Jim to his feet, Spock bearing most of his weight. He was considerably heavier than he had been all those months ago in the hospital, something Spock was relieved to discover.

“I assure you, doctor, we will not encounter any difficulty in delivering him safely home. I was in a meeting with Mr. Scott discussing the progress of the repairs to the _Enterprise_ when you called, and he insisting upon accompanying me. He will bring the hovercraft to the door directly.”

At that moment, Jim stirred, softly saying, “Spock?”

“Captain,” he replied, surprised. “I was not aware that you were conscious.”

“He’s barely awake,” Doctor McCoy groused; then, to Jim he said, “take it easy, kid. We  gotcha.”

Jim needed no further instruction, it seemed. His head lolled almost immediately against his chest.

“He was drugged,” Spock said, needing no answer.

As they made their way out of the room, encountering no resistance from the staff, McCoy growled, “He was _tricked.”_

As promised, Mr. Scott was waiting directly outside the door with their transport. It would appear he had taken his duties far more literally than intended, as the vehicle hovered on the sidewalk immediately outside the building, shortening their journey considerably and breaking more than a few traffic laws.

“What happened here?” the Scotsman asked suspiciously upon seeing the unconscious captain carried between them.

“Later, Scotty,” Doctor McCoy answered as they hoisted Jim into the backseat and secured him with the safety belts. Climbing in beside him, the doctor continued. “I’ll tell you when we’re somewhere private, let’s just get him home, please.”

“Aye-- can do,” Mr. Scott replied with a mock salute. As they took their respective seats, Spock fought against asking the many questions he had. There would be time for that later.

It was a brief but silent ride back to the apartment building where the captain and CMO resided.

Upon arrival, Spock took the burden of carrying Jim himself, insisting their progress would be faster. They hurried through the hallways and into the lift, hoping to avoid any prying eyes. Thankfully, being that it was mid-day on a Wednesday, many of the inhabitants of the building were out. They avoided notice easily.

Once safely within the now familiar rooms of their apartment, Doctor McCoy commanded, “Put him in his bed, Spock-- I’ll check him over once I change.”

It was only then that Spock realized the doctor was still in his medical uniform, complete with white lab coat.

Spock did as he was instructed, laying Jim onto his bed on his back; Mr. Scott followed him, and carefully maneuvered the sheets out of the way, placing the pillow securely under Jim’s head.

Once finished with his task, Spock moved to stand against the wall, allowing room for the doctor to work when he returned. Mr. Scott likewise seated himself in Jim’s desk chair, leaving his bedside free.

The captain did not appear to be in any distress; he slept deeply, chest rising and falling in even breaths, and he had not stirred since Spock’s initial arrival at the psychiatrist’s office. Sedated, Spock assumed, but to what end? To his knowledge it was not normal protocol to sedate a patient during a standard appointment, particularly not one so routine as a pre-duty evaluation. Given the doctor’s displeasure, it was reasonable to assume that there had been no valid cause for the use of medication; Jim most likely had not become irrationally upset, and he would certainly never become violent. What, then, had been the rationale?

Doctor McCoy returned, clad now in more casual clothing and carrying his med-kit. Perching on the side of the bed with a sigh, he withdrew a scanner, hovering it over Jim as he awaited the readings. After a few moments, he visibly relaxed.

“He’s gonna be fine," he said, loading up a hypo with naloxone and pressing it to Jim’s neck. "Hopefully, he'll just sleep it off. Probably gonna wake up with a hell of a headache, though.”

After a moment, Mr. Scott said, “Well that’s a relief, innit? Len, what the hell happened?”

“Komack happened, the bastard. We’re lucky they didn’t overdose him. That shit’s lethal in large quantities.”

Spock, perplexed by the answer, inquired, “Forgive me, but what does Admiral Komack have to do with--”

“I don’t know, Spock, I don’t have all the answers yet-- we’ll have to wait for Jim to wake up and explain things. All I know is I got a call at work from an unknown signal, and it was Jim-- high as a kite-- saying Komack was at his appointment. By the time I got there he was almost completely incoherent.”

As he spoke, he fitted Jim's wrist with a monitoring bracelet from his med-kit, linking it up with his PADD to alert him to any changes. 

“What did they give him?” Spock asked.

“According to my scans, sodium phenobarbital and oxytocins. The quack hasn’t sent me an official report, surprise surprise.”

Mr. Scott broke in questioningly, “Em-- sodium pheno-what now?”

Watching the doctor gravely, Spock clarified for the engineer.

“It is a sedative that, in the twentieth century, was used as a form of truth serum. It lowers inhibitions and dulls reflexes, encouraging honesty from the recipient.”

The implications were not lost on them. Mr. Scott swore lowly under his breath.

“We’re right fucked, aren’t we?” he asked them.

“That’s just about the long and short of it,” Doctor McCoy answered.

The silence stretched on for several moments before Spock suggested they leave the captain to rest.

Retreating to the living room, they began their wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> Jim's Running Time- Current Combat Fitness Test standards require that participants be able to clean 0.5 miles in under 2 minutes and 45 seconds. Jim's current time has him at 2 minutes 38.6 seconds.
> 
> Section 31- Section 31 is a "secret" branch of Starfleet that operates by their own set of rules, off the grid and above the code of conduct. They are often brutal in their methods, and have been proven to be willing to kill to achieve their goals. Marcus was working with Section 31 in Into Darkness, and it was them who found Khan and his crew and attempted to weaponize him to initiate war with the Klingons. He told Spock and Jim that Harrison's initial attack on the archives was actually an attack on a secret Section 31 base, and thus Jim and Spock (and now Bones, who overheard Jim's debriefing in the hospital) know about Section 31, but aren't to speak of it to others. 
> 
> Truth Serum- Sodium pentothal is a form of barbiturate, also known as a depressant or "downer". The drug decreases the body's "message sending" time, slowing reactions between the brain and body. As such, it was used heavily in the early to mid 1900s as a "truth serum", due to it's ability to lower inhibitions and delay the thought to lie, which often prompted the truth. It was decided this was an unreliable method of interrogation in the 1960s, when it was also ruled to be unconstitutional in the Supreme Court, because often people confessed to things they had no involvement in due to their sedation and desire to please people while inhibited. As such, statements taken under this method have been inadmissible in court for over 50 years. It was also one of the first initial methods of lethal injection. Currently, it is used as a sedative, muscle relaxant, and sometimes as an aid to prevent seizures. 
> 
> Oxytocins- Many know of oxytocins as the "happy hormone" or the "love hormone". It's a neurotransmitter that plays a huge role in social interaction and bond forming. In 2005, a study was done in which some were given oxytocins, and some placebos; those who had been given the oxytocin were generally more trusting of others. Thus, oxytocins could potentially be used to trick the brain into a feeling of safety.
> 
> Naloxone- Naloxone is a drug used to counter the effects of sedative medications and prevent overdose.


	9. November- Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim, Bones, Scotty and Spock discuss the ramifications of the newest scheme against them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to ensanguind for reading and editing this chapter more times than I can count. I truly couldn't do this without you. 
> 
> An additional note: the story has been extended by at least one chapter. I hit chapter ten and realized I still have more to cover, but I'm not sure how much exactly. I'll keep you posted. Without further ado...

If the beeping from the PADD hadn’t alerted him to the fact that Jim was awake, the resounding _thud_ from the bedroom certainly would have. His vitals didn’t indicate that he was in any major distress, but all the same Len rose to his feet, gesturing to the other two to stay seated, and made his way to the bedroom, retrieving his med-kit as he went.

Jim was crumpled in a heap on the floor trying in vain to push himself up to his feet. Judging by the sheets tangled around his feet and legs, he had tried to stand and instead had fallen straight out of bed. Smiling fondly, his amusement shining through despite the darker truth of the circumstances, Len made his way forward.

“Whatcha doin’, kiddo?” he asked, setting the med-kit on the floor and crouching beside Jim, PADD in hand. He didn’t seem to have hurt himself in the fall, thank goodness.

Jim was still clearly disoriented, head lolling a bit before he was able to make his muscles cooperate and look at Len-- or at least, in Len’s general direction. Insistently, he stammered, “I’m--I gotta-- I--”

“Ok,” Len said, reaching out to place the PADD on the desk before grasping Jim firmly by the biceps and squeezing gently, “let’s get you back into bed. Sound good?”

“No,” Jim said, pitifully close to a whine, “I can’t, B’nes, I gotta-- gotta go h’me--”

“You are home, kid,” Len replied, tugging gently at his arms. “Come on, let’s get you back into bed--”

“No,” Jim insisted, babbling, “I have to-- have-- fix--”

“Later, Jim,” he said reassuringly. “We’ll take care of it later.”

“But--I don’t--”

The kid was already half asleep again, eyes darting sluggishly around the room.

“Alright, c’mon,” Len said, hoisting Jim to his feet where he wobbled unsteadily. Len guided him back over to the bed. Jim sat down heavily, despite Len’s support. Pulling back the bedding,  he gently helped Jim to lie back down on the mattress, maneuvering his limbs into recovery position just in case, tucking an extra pillow behind his shoulders to prevent him rolling over. The hypo he’d given him earlier should have counteracted the possibility of overdose, but it never hurt to be on the safe side.

Jim was out like a light. Len sighed softly, removing Jim’s shoes and rearranging the covers on the bed, tucking them around his friend. Grabbing the desk chair with one hand he dragged it forward, sitting heavily, and retrieved his PADD. Jim’s vitals were strong; he didn’t seem to be having any difficulty breathing, and his heartbeat was steady. He just needed more sleep, more time for the drugs to work their way out of his system.

The bio-bracelet blinked dimly on Jim’s wrist. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and for the first time Len took in the deep bruising in the crook of his elbow at the site of the injection and realized they had used a syringe. Using a hypo would have required logging the equipment for a change in inventory; they had planned this to be fully off the record.

How could Komack have stooped so low?

How much worse was it going to get?

Shaking his head to clear it of the dark thoughts that were creeping in, he rose quietly and left Jim to sleep, taking his med-kit and PADD with him.

* * *

Jim blinked slowly, the ceiling of his bedroom coming into focus and reassuring him that he was, at least for now, safe and free from Komack’s presence. He winced as a dull throbbing headache made itself known behind his right eyebrow, raising his hands sloppily to his face to rub at the pain. His coordination was shot, it seemed, in the wake of the cocktail of drugs he’d been pumped with at the psychiatrist’s office.

The fact that he was in his own room in his apartment meant that Bones had, at some point, probably come to get him. That, or the doctor had been called to peel him off the floor when he’d eventually passed out, though that was unlikely because there was no way Bones would have been able to carry him all the way up here on his own; he must have been partially conscious. Either way, his friend was sure to be pissed nine ways to hell at him for this mess. Something to look forward to.

With a groan, he forced himself upright, wobbling only slightly and gripped the side of his desk to haul himself to his feet. He was still fully clothed, but his shoes had been removed and set to the side, which he hoped meant Bones probably wasn’t too pissed off, but it was no guarantee; no matter how angry he was at Jim, if he ever had to put him to bed he always made him comfortable.

Tapping at his PADD sitting on his desk, he noted the time-- barely one in the afternoon-- and was mildly surprised that he’d woken up so quickly. He’d only been out a little over an hour. That was probably for the best; he had to alert the crew as soon as possible that he might have completely fucked them all over and they might lose their jobs. He loved being the bearer of good news.

Stumbling to the door, pointedly ignoring the nausea that began to churn in his gut, he waited for it to open before tentatively stepping into the hallway. He heard voices in the living room and turned to see who was in his house, but his still jilted movements sent him tumbling into the far wall instead. He caught himself with his hands against the plaster, but managed to alert everyone in the apartment that he was up and at ‘em in the process. Things really weren’t going his way today.

“Jim,” he heard Bones say, voice moving gradually closer as he hustled to his side, “you ok?”

“Mhmm,” he murmured in agreement, pushing off the wall. “Never better. Just a little unsteady.”

As he slowly shuffled towards the living room, Bones hovering at his elbow in case he took a nosedive, Spock and Scotty came into view.

“Hey,” he said in greeting, raising a hand, “when did you guys get here?”

The two exchanged a glance before Spock answered, “Doctor McCoy requested my assistance in safely seeing you home from your appointment yesterday. As I was with Mr. Scott at the time, he volunteered his help as well. We have remained to ascertain your condition.”

Oh, goody. They already knew. That probably meant that while he had been asleep, the three had worked themselves into a rather respectable panic, or as close to it as Vulcans got in Spock’s case. That was going to make everything so much more-- wait.

“ _Yesterday?”_ he asked incredulously.

“Indeed,” Spock replied. “The drugs rendered you unconscious for some time.”

“Oh,” he said. He hadn’t been out for an hour, he’d been out for _twenty-four_ hours. Not quite sure how to respond to that, he said, “Well, thank you. I don’t know if Bones would have been able to carry me up here-- he might have just given up and left me to sleep it off in a stairwell.”  

Bones snorted in a way that told Jim his joke was _not_ appreciated, but things had gone a bit spinny and he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Staggering forward the last few feet to the nearest armchair, he collapsed into it heavily and brushed his too long hair out of his face with both hands, sighing as the pain in his head increased.

God, he hated drugs. For all that everyone assumed pre-academy that he was a partier and a delinquent, that was one thing he’d never gotten into. One the one had, his allergies meant that he probably would have accidentally offed himself had he tried, but he had never bothered; he truly hated the recovery. He always felt like hell after heavier meds.

“Headache, laddie?” Scotty asked quietly from the opposite armchair.

He waved off the concern. “Just a mild one. Happens.”

From behind him, Bones apologetically said, “I’d give you something for it, but I’m hesitant to give you something that might interact with whatever’s still lingering in your system.”

“S’ok, Bones, don’t worry about it,” he reassured, tucking his feet up and crossing his legs beneath him in the chair, gripping the armrests tightly to anchor himself. “Take a seat, let’s get this over with.” Hesitantly, they each settled into their seats. “How much do you already know?”

Again, it was Spock who answered. “We know that Admiral Komack somehow gained admittance to what was meant to be a private psychiatric evaluation and that you were dosed rather heavily with sodium phenobarbital. Doctor McCoy’s scans upon our return here showed that oxytocin was also administered. Beyond this point, we know very little.”

Glancing from Scotty to Bones, awaiting their input and receiving none, Jim nodded. “Don’t remember that last bit, but I’ll take your word for it.”

Bones was seething in his seat. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember,” he ground out, spinning the ring on his little finger. “You were barely conscious by the time I got there.”

“When did they call you?” Jim asked.

Bones looked up sharply. “When did--” he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “ _You_ called me, Jim.”

Jim nodded thoughtfully. “Again, I’ll take your word for it.”

“Oh fer-- get on with it, Jimbo! What happened in there?” Scotty exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “And how much shite are we in?”

Hanging his head, rubbing his palms together Jim sighed. “I--don’t honestly know.”

“Forgive me, Jim, I must request that you clarify your statement,” Spock said.

“I uh--” he cleared his throat. “I don’t exactly remember a lot of it. I don’t know what I told them.”

“Shit,” Bones hissed, dropping his head into his hands.

“We need not worry,” Spock interjected, ever the voice of logic and reason, “Starfleet protocol clearly states under Section 49 of the pre-requisite requirements that any and all psychiatric treatment or evaluation must be performed without the influence of any prohibitive substance. We can easily petition for the evaluation to be considered invalid. Furthermore, if we move swiftly we can have the Admiral brought up on charges. Starfleet aside, the use of such methods is illegal; nothing you may have said will be considered admissible in court--”

“Whoa, whoa,” Jim said raising a hand to halt Spock’s speech. “ _Charges_? Spock, I don’t know that he’s going to do anything with what I told him-- and I have _no idea_ what I said. We’re not sure he has anything on us, let’s not go hauling him up on charges and get ourselves in too deep.”  

“I dunno, laddie,” Scotty said slowly, “wouldn’t it be best te beat him to it? Get him before he gets us?”

“Not if we wind up court martialled in the process,” Jim reasoned. Looking to the doctor, he called, “Hey, Bones, back me up here.”

“Hell if I know, kid,” he drawled. Turning to Spock he continued, “But I wouldn’t be so quick to toss out the evaluation, Spock-- he passed, and I’ve got the paperwork to prove it. If we go accusing admiral’s of illegal activity, we might not get so lucky next time.” Eying Jim he asked,  “What are the chances that you didn’t say anything?”

Jim thought back to what little he could remember of the interrogation; they had asked him a lot of questions, and it was all pretty fuzzy in his memory. “From what I can actually remember, I was mostly just being a smartass,” he shrugged. “I wasn’t answering the questions at all so-- they upped the dosage.”

At this, Bones rose and began pacing irritably.

“Jesus Christ-- forget whatever you might have said, they could have _killed_ you, Jim! That shit they were giving you? It was used for lethal injections back in the day; we could bring him up on charges for that alone!”

“And he could counter with whatever he’s got,” Jim said back. "Look, I consented to the sedatives--"

"With a gun to your head," Bones grumbled. At this, Spock looked alarmed and opened his mouth to object, but Bones cut him off with a disgruntled, "Metaphor, Spock."

“--and if he’s got anything, we could be royally screwed. You could be brought up on malpractice, Spock could be considered an accomplice, we could _all_ be discharged under Article 107--”

“It would appear,” Spock said reluctantly, “that we have reached an impasse. We cannot bring to light the illegality of Komack’s actions without also potentially incriminating ourselves.”

“Aye, that bastard seems te have it out for you, Jimbo,” Scotty murmured.

“I must admit,” Spock agreed, “the admiral does seem to have a peculiar insistence to hinder your progress, Jim.”

Jim shook his head. “I don’t know how much of it is me, personally, and how much of it is the convenience it offers him. Sure, he’s never liked me much, but he’s never gone this far. I think he’s trying to cover his own ass.” Looking to Scotty he said, “This can never leave this room, Scotty-- I’m serious, it could get dangerous if the wrong person overhears you talk about this-- but Komack is heading Section 31 now.”

“Em-- sorry,” Scotty interjected, raising a hand in question. “Section what now?” Spock launched into a brief overview.

Once he was finished, Jim nodded, and continued. “The admiralty thinks it was destroyed in the attack on the archives but-- he’s investigating the ‘Harrison Incident’, as he calls it.”

Bones halted in his tracks; Spock raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Bones growled. “I knew he was up to something-- when they came to the hospital, the _second_ you mentioned Section 31 he went white as a sheet. Looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

Spock nodded in understanding. “That does explain much of his behavior in recent months. He clearly suspects that there is more to the situation than he has been told-- he would not be so insistent otherwise. He knows that we-- that is, the bridge crew-- have a more thorough understanding of Section 31’s plan than was ever intended. We know of Khan’s true identity and history, as well as the grave error in judgement that resulted in the deaths of so many Starfleet personnel. If Admiral Komack is trying to prevent the public discovery of Section 31, surely the quickest way to do so would be to ensure that the team charged with disposing of their--” he paused, “project, and thereby preventing their culpability from becoming known--and failing to do so-- was distanced from Starfleet. That is why he so adamantly opposed your reinstatement.”

Jim nodded, “He knows we know more than we’re letting on, that’s for sure. My main concern is with what happened-- after Khan.” He carefully avoided referring to his death. “If I blabbed about what happened there, he has more than enough to get us discredited and tossed out on our ears. Section 31 is common knowledge now, at least among the higher ranking officers; he could have us court martialled.”

“But would they really find us guilty for-- what, saving your life?” Bones asked incredulously.

“That’s not really a risk I’m willing to take, Bones,” he answered sincerely. “Look, Section 31 was trying to create weapons of war; we know this. Marcus was desperately trying to instigate war with the Klingons. The admiralty must be getting a handle on that, considering everything that went down, but if there’s even a chance they’re still moving forward, well… we know what Khan’s blood can do. Imagine the fallout if they found out and started experimenting. We’d be right back to the eugenics era.”

“Well, then what’s the plan?” Bones asked, moving closer to Jim’s chair.

“For now,” Jim answered, “we wait. Komack isn’t stupid enough to try anything just yet.  He needs to be sure he isn’t caught, first and foremost. He may be operating above Starfleet’s command, but he knows he has to fly under the radar all the same. If he loses his commission as an admiral, he’s no good to Section 31.”

“Then let’s bring him up on charges for this, Jim!” Bones insisted. “Breach of privacy, blackmail, use of illegal substances-- we can get him discharged and then we won’t have to worry about all of this!”

“And what do we do when we’re asked about the blackmail? Or why he was using a ‘truth serum’?” Jim shot back, needing him to understand. “It’s not that simple, Bones. We don’t even know if he knows anything yet. Let’s just wait it out, and if it comes down to it, I’ll handle it.”

“Kid--”

“Trust me, Bones,” Jim replied. “Just-- trust me.”

* * *

 

A week passed uneventfully. There were no messages from the admiralty, no surprise run ins with Komack, no suspicious activity of any kind.

The crew was informed to be on their guard, just in case. Those who had not been present for the impromptu meeting after Jim’s psych evaluation had been properly displeased by the newest development, and agreed to keep their eyes out for any trouble. Thankfully, as of yet no one had seen or heard anything alarming.

November 17th, Jim was scheduled for his CFTs. He was back to full physical fitness, but the nervousness remained that he might not pass; the tests were grueling and difficult, even for those much stronger than he’d ever be. Whenever he felt anxious, he tried to breathe deeply and remind himself that he’d passed before and could do so again; but his body had been through hell and back, and he worried that something-- anything, would go wrong.

November 15th and 16th he lightened up his routine, giving his muscles a chance to recover slightly before the big day, but still went out jogging both mornings.

He had to pass. His uniform finally fit correctly again; he needed to wear it for real.

The morning of the 17th, he declined numerous offers to accompany him to headquarters before the shuttle carried him off to the test site. He assured everyone that he appreciated their support, but this was something he needed to do alone. Bones was reluctant to agree, given what had happened last time he’d had an evaluation, but Jim had eventually talked him down. He was sure that everyone would be encouraging and have several pep talks to give him-- which was exactly what he hoped to avoid. In case something happened and he didn’t pass, he didn’t want the added factor of disappointing them _and_ having their words of support haunting him.

He walked himself to HQ; their apartments were all stationed not far from there, anyway, and he was too anxious to sit for any extended periods of time. He already had to take a shuttle to the test zone, he wasn’t about to take one to the building.

He walked in the door at 1100 hours on the nose, glancing around for the PTI he was supposed to be meeting.

“Kirk,” the instructor called when he spotted him. The man was huge, towering over Jim by several inches, and had a good fifty pounds on him, easy. He looked Jim over, expression blank and unforgiving. After a moment, he said, ”Let’s get this show on the road.”

With a jerk of his head, he turned on his heel, and Jim followed.

Arriving at the shuttle bay, they were met by a doctor who quickly fitted Jim with a monitoring bracelet-- _God_ , he was getting so sick of those damn things-- to track his heart rate and other vitals during the testing.

“After you, Kirk,” the instructor ordered, gesturing for him to enter the shuttle.

Jim obeyed, seating himself quickly.

It wasn’t until they arrived at the site that he realized he never found out the man’s name.

At that point, he wasn’t sure if he should ask.

* * *

  
It had begun pouring sometime around 1200. The rain clattered loudly against the windows, running down in thick streams and distorting the view of the city below. Nervously, Nyota worried at a fingernail.

Kirk’s testing had to be happening now, of all times.

She had come to wish him luck, but had just missed him, according to Leonard. The doctor had himself pretty worked up with nerves, foot tapping against the rug where he sat on the couch and fingers drumming restlessly on his thigh as he watched the clock. It hadn’t taken her more than a few seconds to invite herself to stay and wait with him. They could both use the company.

Everyone else was busy, be it with their ground work at the academy, assisting in the repairs, or-- in Spock’s case-- visiting with family. Sarek was in the city by request of Starfleet to report on the progress of New Vulcan, and had requested to meet with his son during his stay.

So she and Leonard waited. Initially, she had tried to strike up conversation, but it was clear they were both too anxious to really talk much. This was the last step towards having Jim back. The last step towards having their captain back.

He would pass. He had to.

The waiting was awful.

It felt like they’d been waiting since he woke up. He’d made excellent progress, and it was encouraging to see each new advancement as he went; but seeing him so vulnerable and down had been hard on them all. It had brought them closer, though, in it’s own way. Jim had been forced to open up to them, to rely on them and trust them a bit more than he had, and they had been given the opportunity to prove themselves to him, not as his crew but as his friends. Hopefully, when everything was said and done, they’d all be stronger for it.

She was probably placing too much importance on the CFTs; if he failed-- which he wouldn’t-- then he would reschedule and try again down the road, but there was no telling when that might be. It was hard not to be hopeful. She had never thought she’d see the day, but she wanted Kirk back.

“He’s gonna pass,” Leonard said quietly, gaze still fixed on the clock. “He’s worked his ass off, and he’s back to where he was before. He’s gonna pass.”

Nyota nodded, her own eyes flicking to the time. “Of course he is.”

At that moment, the door opened, revealing the man himself.

He was filthy, covered in mud from head to toe, soaked through and dripping onto the wood floor. His hair was dark with rain and dirt, and plastered slick to his head, desperately in need of a cut and falling into his eyes.

“Oh,” he said upon seeing Nyota. “Hey. Didn’t know you were here.”

“How’d it go?” she asked, rising to her feet as Leonard did the same.

“Hey, Bones,” Jim continued, almost absently-- not quite ignoring her, but not acknowledging her question, either.

“Jim,” Leonard scolded gently, encouraging him to answer the question. “How’d it go?”

Jim shrugged, toeing off his shoes gingerly and bending to carry them to the bathroom.

“It went,” he responded as he shuffled down the hallway, a dull thud echoing back to them as he dropped his shoes into the sink and began rinsing them off. “Geez, have you seen the rain? It’s insane--”

He continued babbling about the _weather_ of all things, as she and Leonard exchanged a nervous look. What was he doing?

“Kirk!” she finally called in exasperation. “Answer the damn question!”

Poking his head out the door-- and gross, there was even dirt in his teeth when he smiled-- he said haughtily, “That’s active duty _Captain_ Kirk to you, Lieutenant.”

“ _Yes!”_ she shouted, smiling so widely her cheeks ached.

Behind her, Leonard muttered, “You little shit.”

Stepping more fully into the hallway, Jim smiled widely and, looking pointedly at Leonard, said, “That’s _Captain_ Little Shit to you.”

Ok, that was going to get old _very_ quickly-- but Jim looked so happy, she couldn’t quite bring herself to call him on it. Not yet.  

Jim walked slowly towards them, grinning devilishly as he raised his arms.

“So do I get a hug?” he asked innocently; a clod of dirt fell from his sleeve to the floor with a dull _splat._

“Not on your life, _Captain_ ,” she deadpanned, staring in disgust at the overall state of him. “Not until you shower.”

“You wound me, Lieutenant,” he replied, placing hand over his heart. The material of his shirt shifted with a wet squelching sound.

“I’m sure.”

“I suppose I can’t _order_ you to hug me…” he said contemplatively. “That would be an abuse of power, even if you are being incredibly rude… but surely I can hug my roommate.”

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” Leonard began, already maneuvering himself behind the couch, putting furniture between himself and his filthy roommate. “Don’t you dare, I swear to God, Jim--”  
The one downside to Jim being back up to speed was that he was hard to outrun.

As Jim wrapped his arms around Leonard, who protested loudly and dramatically until the two slipped in a patch of rainwater Jim had dripped onto the floor and came crashing down, Nyota rolled her eyes and sent out a comm to the remaining crew.

_He’s going to be downright insufferable now._

Somehow, she didn’t think any of them would mind.

* * *

Jim swore the admirals were screwing with him on purpose.

He understood that sometimes things were truly urgent and couldn’t wait, but really? Calling him in the day after Thanksgiving?

He had been invited to go with Bones to Georgia to spend the holiday with his family-- Mrs. McCoy and Joanna, whom he hadn’t seen in over a year-- and he’d been excited about it. Then of course, he received the summons that he was to appear before the admiralty on Friday morning at 1100 hours. It wasn’t really that big of a deal; honestly, he was a bit glad that Bones would get to spend some time one-on-one with his family and away from Jim for once. He’d taken up too much of the doctor’s time this year. Bones deserved a break.

He had protested though; Jim had honestly thought for a few days that he wasn’t going to go. He’d offered to stay with Jim dozens of times, and each time Jim had shut him down, reassuring him that he would be fine and to say hi to Jo for him. Bones had reluctantly agreed, and had taken the shuttle home Wednesday night.

The time alone had been good for Jim. For the first time in months, a tension he had felt-- but hadn’t quite understood-- had bled out of him, and he had enjoyed the quiet evening just reading on the couch with no one around. The silence would have typically been overwhelming, but he had found it soothing in a strange way.

Thanksgiving day he had spent puttering around in the kitchen. He didn’t mind cooking; he wasn’t particularly good at it, but that was neither here nor there. Without Bones around to nitpick or scold him for making a mess-- it wasn’t like he _left_ the mess, he always cleaned up after himself-- he created a passable dinner and had a few drinks, listening to music until he was tired enough to sleep, and trying not to think too hard about what lay in store for him the next day.

It couldn’t be anything too dreadful; he’d been reinstated and cleared for duty, and if Komack had decided to call him up on charges there probably would have been an armed escort involved. More likely than not, everything was fine; not knowing was stressful all the same.

Friday morning, he spent a great deal of time making sure he was presentable for the meeting. He shined his boots, pressed his uniform, and took extra care shaving.

He took a final glance at himself in the mirror once more before departing.

Aside from the fact that he desperately needed a haircut, he looked… like himself.

His uniform fit him properly for the first time in ages, sharp lines and well fitted jacket accentuating his broad shoulders and angular face, the pants sitting snugly at his waist and the hat making him look distinguished and refined rather than gaunt and ill.

For the first time in _months_ , since Khan, since everything had gone down on Nibiru, he didn’t feel like he was playing dress up. He saw himself.

Jim Kirk.

_Captain_.

Taking comfort in the fact that he definitely didn’t look as nervous as he felt, he made his way to headquarters.

Once more unto the breach…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter:
> 
> Recovery Position- Recovery position is used in situations when an unconscious person is at risk of vomiting to prevent choking.
> 
> Article 107- I have mentioned Article 107 before, but in case anyone needs a refresher, Article 107 relates to making false statements in written or verbal debriefings as a member of the armed forces. 
> 
> Eugenics- Eugenics is a belief that the human population can be genetically enhanced or improved, i.e a "master race". Khan and his crew, in the AOS universe, were subjects of these enhancements during the eugenics wars of the 20th century.


	10. November- Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Enterprise is assigned the five year mission. Their celebrations are interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my immense thanks to ensanguind for reading and editing. 
> 
> With this chapter, I have officially "won" NaNoWriMo. I've written over 50,000 words in the last 21 days. But the story isn't over yet...

They got it. The mission was theirs.

Jim left the hall in a blissful daze, head fuzzy and a dreamy smile plastered stupidly across his face but he couldn’t be bothered to care because  _ they got it. _

The five year mission. Uncharted space. 

It was everything he could have hoped for. He had been given orders to assemble his crew and to begin preparations to ship out at the beginning of the new year, February at the latest-- as soon as the repairs on the  _ Enterprise  _ were finished. 

It was simply an added bonus that Komack had been positively  _ seething _ during the meeting. 

Returning to his apartment, he hurried to discard his formal uniform in favor of more casual clothing. Then, flopping down on the couch, he sent off a comm to the members of the bridge crew asking them to meet him at the bar downtown at 1900 hours on Saturday evening. Bones would be back by then, and he could ask them personally to accept positions as his crew once more. He couldn’t wait. 

Happier than he could remember being in a long time, he fought back the urge to spoil the surprise and comm everyone individually. Ironic that after being in their company almost constantly the last 9 months, the one moment truly worth celebrating saw him all alone. 

No matter. There would be time to celebrate later. 

Five years among the stars. 

_ Home. _

* * *

For Spock, Thanksgiving passed with little pomp and circumstance, being an antiquated Terran holiday and thus not something he and his father were particularly adamant about celebrating. However, as Sarek was in the city on an errand of diplomacy, Spock had accepted his offer to join him for dinner on the day. 

His mother had been particularly fond of the holiday, going to extremes to prepare large feasts, unflagging in her attempts to coerce others to join in the festivities. Rarely was her offer of hospitality accepted on Vulcan, but she had never been deterred. 

It had been a pleasant afternoon with his father, who had inquired after the health of his captain. Spock had been pleased to report that he was fully cleared for duty and once more back to his usual self. He had considered, briefly, asking for his father’s input and guidance regarding the situation with Admiral Komack. Having been an ambassador for several years, Sarek was skilled in diplomatic negotiation, and his advice could prove invaluable, should he have any to offer. Spock had decided against this, however, due to the potential risk of exposing him to the secrets of Section 31, something that could put him in immense danger. Sentiment aside, it was only logical to protect one of the few surviving members of his race, particularly one who held so much knowledge of their history and culture. 

He was certain it was the right decision, though he found himself wishing the following afternoon that he had at least tried. Though he had spent many hours puzzling over the situation, he could not find a favorable outcome that did not involve the potential dishonorable discharge of himself and every other member of the bridge crew at the time of Marcus’ betrayal. The only incriminating evidence he had managed to uncover was the selection of Dr. Maru by Admiral Komack himself;  the woman who had overseen Jim’s evaluation. This would do them no good, however; without any solid proof against them. They were, as the saying went, stuck between a rock and a hard place. There was no simple solution.  

A message from Jim arrived in the early afternoon, requesting that they meet at a pub in the shopping district on Saturday evening. Spock had responded in the affirmative. It was his understanding that the captain had spent Thanksgiving alone and though he had not seemed distressed by this fact, it would surely do him good to see his friends after a period of solitude. 

As such, he found himself in a sparsely populated establishment in the early hours of the evening, surrounded by Lieutenants Uhura and Sulu, Mr. Scott, Doctor McCoy, and Ensign Chekov. Each of them looked perplexed by the impromptu gathering, and Jim was nowhere to be found. 

When it seemed the captain would be late to his own event, McCoy grew irritable and pulled out his communicator to ascertain his location-- but just at that moment, Jim came sauntering into the building. He spotted the group easily and raising a hand in greeting, his worn leather jacket riding up at the wrist as he did so. 

“You all made it!” he exclaimed as he approached. “Excellent.” Leaning against the bar, he signalled to the bartender, who came scurrying over. “First round’s on me, place your orders,” he instructed, turning to rest both elbows on the bar, crossing his ankles and facing the entrance as he waited. 

Doctor McCoy needed no further prompting, and ordered a gin and tonic. Mr. Scott followed suit, requesting a scotch. The others, too, dictated their choice of beverage, while Spock chose water. Once the others had been served, Jim politely requested a beer. 

After everyone had a drink in hand, Nyota’s voice broke through the hum of conversation in the room. “So… you going to tell us why you called us out here, or--?” 

Jim’s gaze fell to the counter, a smile spreading across his face as his shoulders hitched in a laugh. “I asked you here,” he said, straightening and taking a sip from his glass, “because I have a question.” 

“A question for all of us, Jim, sir?” Chekov chirped in question. 

“Yes, all of you, Chekov,” Jim responded. “I had a meeting with the admiralty yesterday--” 

The group erupted into chatter, talking over one another with curiosity and concern for the captain. Spock remained silent, awaiting the details that would surely follow.  

Jim raised his free hand in supplication, crying out, “Whoa, whoa! Calm down, everything’s fine!” 

Here, Sulu spoke up, asking, “What did they want now?”

Jim shrugged one shoulder, smirking in a facade of nonchalance. “Nothing major,” he replied. “Just,” he paused to take a sip of his beer, “to tell me that the  _ Enterprise _ was selected for the five year mission.” 

At this, the group lost all semblance of control.

An illogical reaction.

And yet, watching their exuberance, Spock found himself pleased by the news as well. His lips quirked at the edges. 

Fascinating. 

* * *

“So what’s the question, kid?” Len asked above the din, drawing everyone’s attention back to the main point. 

Jim caught his eye gratefully as the group quieted enough for him to answer. “Well, they told me to pick a crew. I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, but I thought I’d officially ask-- easier to ask you all at once.” Looking over the group hopefully, he asked, “Whattaya say?” 

There was a chorus of agreement; Uhura insisted that someone needed to make sure they stayed alive and didn’t piss off any locals, Sulu that they’d need a stellar pilot to fly a ship of that caliber. Chekov babbled something in Russian, and Scotty gave a simple, “Aye, captain!” 

Once the commotion had died down a bit, Jim looked to Spock. Dipping his head, the Vulcan replied, “It would be my honor, captain.” 

Smiling gratefully, Jim nodded his thanks before turning to Len. Smirking, Jim shoved a hand into his pocket, the hand on his beer absently thumbing the side of his glass, causing condensation to collect into droplets that fell to the floor. 

“And--?” the younger man said, after Len remained silent a moment too long. 

Len scoffed, lightly smacking the blond upside the head. “Like I’m letting you go traipsing around the universe without me to keep you outta trouble.” 

Jim smiled all the wider. “Guess that settles that then-- we’ve got our CMO.” 

“When do we ship out?” Sulu asked, perching on a low set table. 

“January… February at the latest,” Jim replied. “We’ve got a few months, yet.” 

“Perfect!” Scotty cried. “Then we have time te celebrate!” 

As the crew each raised their glass with a resounding  _ hear hear!  _ Scotty scampered off to fetch the next round, and the celebration began in earnest. Loud conversation, dancing, even a few rounds of pool-- at which, it turned out, Chekov was a master.

Sidling up to Jim, who remained leaning against the bar counter, Len mimicked his position and together they watched their friends. 

“You clean up good,  _ Captain _ ” he teased, reaching out and flicking at a longer strand of Jim’s newly cut hair. Then, tugging at the shoulder of his jacket, “Haven’t seen this ol’ thing for a while.” 

Jim shrugged, not protesting the treatment. “You know-- thought I’d haul it out for the occasion.” 

Finishing his drink, Jim turned his body to face the bartender instead, ordering something with a bit more bite and resting on his forearms as he waited. 

Jim was overjoyed; it was easy to see in the way he held himself, the broad smile on his face, the gleam in his eye, the way he swayed slightly with the music-- Jim was  _ not _ a dancer, but in the company of his friends, with a drink in his hand and so much to be happy about, it seemed he couldn’t help himself. Len couldn’t have been prouder of the kid. He’d come so far in the last several months and it was paying off in the best way possible; the five year mission was something Jim had desperately wanted even before everything had happened back in March. For it to be given to him now, at the end of a long road to recovery, was truly an amazing stroke of luck. The timing couldn’t be better. 

Of course that’s when Admiral Komack waltzed through the door. 

Goddamnit. 

“I’ll be right back,” Len said, leaning in and raising his voice to be heard over the raucous music that had started up a few moments prior. Jim raised an eyebrow, but nodded that he had heard. 

Moving quickly, hoping to intercept the man before he reached Jim and started something, he stepped deliberately into the man’s path with an overly polite, “Admiral Komack. Fancy seein’ you here.” A quick glance out of the corner of his eye told him that Spock, too, had been alerted to the man’s presence, and the Vulcan made his way to them as well. Jim, who had become caught up in a conversation with Sulu, was unaware over the noise of the bar and the commotion around him. 

"McCoy,” Komack greeted stiffly, clearly unhappy about being sidetracked. “Congratulations on the new commission. It’s no small feat, your captain being assigned such a task after such a long recovery.” 

Choosing his words carefully, Len replied, “Yes, sir. Radiation poisoning is no joke; wreaks havoc on the body.” 

Komack smirked, watching Jim at the bar and nodding. “Of course, I really shouldn’t be surprised,” he said airily. 

“Surprised, Admiral?” Spock asked, coming up beside them. 

“Indeed, Commander,” the admiral continued. “I was just telling the doctor here it’s really no surprise Kirk is doing so well after his… ordeal.”

“No?” Spock asked, cautiously. “It’s true, the captain has worked extraordinarily hard to--”

Komack waved him off. “Yes, yes, I’m sure he has, but… there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” He asked, turning his gaze to Len. “It’s-- _ in his blood,  _ you might say.” 

Len glowered at him. He didn’t dare say anything for fear of incriminating himself further. They had all hoped that maybe luck had been on their side; that Jim hadn’t given away too much under the influence of the ‘truth serum’. It was looking like they were shit outta luck. 

“Problem, gentlemen?” A hand landed on his shoulder, gently moving him to the side so Jim could step forward and face off with Komack. The crew lingered a few feet behind, clearly on alert. “Admiral, what brings you here?” 

Komack smirked confidently back at Jim, eyeing the glass in his hand. “That’s not really behavior becoming of a Starfleet officer, is it, Kirk?”

Jim shrugged offhandedly. “We’re not on duty here, sir.”  

Komack’s smirk faded into something darker. “Be that as it may, you and I both know that Mr. Chekov is not of age.” 

Chekov cowed under the man’s glare, but Jim quickly diverted the attention back to himself with a pointed, “And Mr. Chekov is not drinking. Crisis averted.” 

“Watch the attitude, Kirk,” Komack growled. “I came here simply to offer my congratulations on the selection of the  _ Enterprise _ for the five year mission--”

“Really, Admiral? Is that all?” Any lingering gentility faded from Jim’s tone; any laxity in his posture was instantly replaced with squared shoulders and a lift of his chin . “Because it  _ sounded _ like you were threatening my CMO.”

“Jim,” Len said warningly. This could go south, and  _ fast.  _ Jim raised a hand by his side, a signal to let him handle it. Reluctantly, Len fell silent, glaring adamantly at Komack.

Komack shook his head pityingly. “You really are more trouble than you’re worth, you know that Kirk?” Glancing around the bar, making sure they weren’t under too much scrutiny, he stepped forward, invading Jim’s personal space, their faces mere inches apart. Len reacted automatically, shifting in preparation to pull Jim back and away from the man; on Jim’s opposite side, Spock did the same, but Jim didn’t so much as flinch. “Know when you’re beat, son,” Komack continued, voice low. “My colleagues and I would very much appreciate your--  _ cooperation _ in certain matters, and knowing what I know, I think it would be in your best interest to comply.” 

Jim’s expression morphed into confusion, brows pulling and a small frown appearing as he searched the admiral’s face. “‘Knowing what you know?’” he repeated, “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I follow.” 

“Cut the bullshit, Kirk,” Komack snarled. “You told me more than enough of what your doctor here pulled after you entered the warp core--” 

Jim cut him off with an agreeable, “And I was happy to do it, sir, Doctor McCoy is a skilled physician. I wouldn’t have recovered nearly so well if it wasn’t for his dedication to his craft.” 

Komack’s eyes narrowed and he hissed, “That’s not what I mean and you  _ know it _ .” 

“Then tell me, Admiral,” Jim said lowly. He was livid. “What  _ do _ you mean? Please, enlighten me as to what I so adamantly informed you of in my drug induced stupor after  _ your _ doctor pumped me full of illegal sedatives?” 

“With your consent!” Komack growled insistently. 

“Under blackmail,” Jim spat back.

Komack, to Len’s surprise, burst out laughing, drawing a few eyes to their group. Composing himself, he took a step backwards. The crew relaxed slightly as his proximity to Jim decreased; Jim did not. 

“You can’t prove anything,” Komack said. “Dr. Maru is a highly respected professional--” 

“Whom you hand selected,” Spock broke in. “Prior to these past few weeks, she has no affiliation with Starfleet in any capacity.” 

“That’s neither here nor there,” Komack continued. “Her record speaks for itself. Just because I put her name forward doesn’t mean I had any further involvement with her alleged actions.” 

“Alleged,” Jim snorted. “Sure. Then I’m sure we won’t find her fingerprints all over this.” 

Reaching into his pocket, he removed a plastic bag with a syringe in it, beads of moisture-- residual sodium phenobarbital-- lingering on the sides. 

Komack’s expression faltered, only momentarily, and he swiped blindly at the bag. Jim’s reflexes proved faster, and he swiftly maneuvered it out of the man’s reach, passing it to Spock who tucked it into an inner pocket for safekeeping. 

Jim raised an eyebrow, waiting expectantly for Komack’s reply. After several minutes, the admiral spoke. 

“Very well then… let’s reason this out, Kirk,” Komack said condescendingly. “Suppose you do prove that Dr. Maru had a hand in all of this-- even if it’s tied back to me, you’ll never prove anything. The word of an admiral against the word of a new captain who has already fallen under a more than a fair bit of scrutiny in his short career?  I practically have a confession from your own mouth! And what do you have? Nothing.” 

Jim pursed his lips, gaze falling to the floor as he nodded hesitantly; a jolt of fear clenched painfully in Len’s chest. Komack’s point was valid. They may be able to prove the involvement of the doctor, but Komack was careful. Everything he had done was off the record as a member of Section 31. 

But then Jim spoke. 

“You’re right, sir… you practically have a confession. Luckily for me,” he continued, pulling back his jacket, and revealing a small recording device hooked to his inner pocket, a faint red light blinking steadily. Leaning forward, he stage whispered conspiratorially, “I  _ definitely _ have one.” 

Son of a bitch. 

* * *

Jim let his jacket fall to cover the device once more, taking an exaggerated sip of his drink as he watched Komack sweat. Hissing in a breath, pulling his lips back over his teeth as the bitter liquid slid down his throat, he spoke. 

“So, Admiral… let’s ‘reason this out’,” he threw the man’s own words back at him. Behind him Scotty chortled under his breath. “You might have some--” he waved a hand vaguely, “I don’t know that I’d call it  _ confession _ , exactly, let’s say… gibberish, that was obtained under the influence of fallible and illegal substances following blackmail, and numerous attempts to remove me from command-- something I have several witnesses to, by the way.” 

He raised a finger from his grip on his glass, pointing around himself at their small congregation. 

“And  _ I _ have solid, irrefutable proof that you hired a doctor to illegally dose me in an attempt to interrogate me, including a confession. High stakes, Admiral; at the very least, you’d lose your commission, and-- well, you won’t be much good to your  _ colleagues _ without access to Starfleet’s resources, will you?” 

“I could bring you up on charges for--”

Jim interrupted him quickly, raising his voice over the admiral’s. “You could try, sir, but I’d think carefully about whether or not that’s a risk you want to take.” 

Smiling smugly as Komack blustered and stammered, Jim knew that he had won. 

After a long moment, Komack resignedly said, “Name your terms, Kirk.” 

“My terms?” he scoffed. “Simple: turn control of the  _ Enterprise  _ over entirely to Barnett and stay out of our way. You’ll have more than enough to focus on keeping your  _ colleagues _ in line.”

Komack was red in the face; furious, but wisely staying silent. He gave a single stiff nod before he turned and shoved his way out of the pub. With a mock salute, Jim watched him go. 

Turning to face his crew, he was met with a variety of emotions. Uhura was fuming; clearly eager to chase after Komack and rain down her own torrent of insubordinate language on the man-- not that he’d understand a word of it. Scotty was desperately trying not to laugh and failing miserably. Sulu was smirking, arms crossed against his chest as he muttered, “Well I’ll be damned.” Chekov was staring at Jim in near awe. 

Spock’s expression was carefully blank, as always, but Jim swore he saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he said, “It would seem we will not have any further trouble from the admiral.” 

Uncomfortable under all the scrutiny, Jim responded, “So it would seem, Mr. Spock.” Clearing his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot, he exclaimed, “Well, let’s not let that ruin our night! C’mon, we’re  _ celebrating!”  _ He raised his glass. “To five years in space!” 

Scotty echoed his cry enthusiastically, finishing off the rest of his drink and going for round three. The others followed his lead and quickly dispersed, going back to their respective activities excitedly, if a little shaken. 

Bones, on the other hand…

Jim turned to face the doctor, fulling expecting to be chewed out. He was not disappointed. 

“That was the dumbest thing you’ve-- do you have any idea what he could’ve-- I swear, Jim--” 

Jim cut him off with an amused, “Is there a full sentence in there somewhere, Bones?” 

“You absolute brat,” the doctor finally managed, a stunned laugh escaping him against his will. “How did you do it?” 

“Which part?” Jim asked curiously. 

“Let’s start with the needle,” Bones said. “When did you possibly--”

“I don’t exactly know,” Jim admitted, shrugging his shoulders with a helpless expression. “I don’t remember doing it, but I found it in my pocket a few days after the appointment.” 

“And the recorder?” 

Jim reflexively tugged at his clothing. “I had it already. I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to use it.” 

“Wait, wait--” Bones cut him off, suspiciously. “Have you just been wearing that thing non-stop on the off chance you ran into Komack?” 

With a sheepish grin, Jim admitted, “Pretty much, yeah.” 

Jim had expected that that tidbit would invite a good laugh at his expense. He was not expecting for Bones to grab him roughly by the shoulders and haul him into a forceful, desperate hug, patting him roughly on the back. 

“Whoa, hey,” Jim said worriedly, returning the embrace with his free arm and being sure not to spill what was left of his drink down Bones’ back. “C’mon, it wasn’t even  _ that  _ dangerous--” he tried to joke. 

Bones released him as swiftly as he had embraced him, dragging a hand down his face. “I really didn’t know how we were gonna get out of that one, kid,” he admitted quietly. “I was scared to death that they were gonna take everything away from you--” 

Jim blinked in confusion. “From-- from  _ me? _ Forget me, man, what about you? What about them?” he jerked his head towards the crew. “I can’t let anything happen to any of you-- not if I can help it. That’s my job.” 

Bones watched him silently for a moment before replying, “And having your back? Keeping you alive? That’s mine. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, Jim.” 

Jim’s lips quirked in a grateful smile. “You’re damn good at your job, Doctor McCoy,” he said, sincerely. 

“Same to you, kid,” Bones replied. 

After a few moments of silence, Jim cleared his throat, clapping Bones on the shoulder and steering him back towards the group with a, “C’mon, Bones. Enough of the sappy shit. Let’s show these suckers how pool is  _ really _ played.” 

* * *

 

Jim awoke with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. Clambering gracelessly to his feet, body protesting his night spent on the floor, he was only mildly surprised to find that they were in Spock’s apartment, no doubt corralled there by the still sober Vulcan after round eight or so. 

Uhura had been the smart one-- she’d ducked out and left the men to their stupidity sometime around 22 hundred hours, happily buzzed but definitely not drunk. Sulu, ever a gentleman, had escorted her safely home, letting Jim know by comm, before heading home himself. 

How Spock had put up with them, he’d never know-- and yet his first officer’s patience must have held out. They were all in one piece, safely draped across various pieces of furniture in his home sleeping off their mistakes. Mistakes, in this instance, meaning many,  _ many _ shots. 

Jim was getting too old for this, apparently, because he felt like  _ hell.  _ How he had gone to classes after nights like that he’d never understand. 

He stepped over Chekov’s legs, sprawled gracelessly in front of him where he slumped in an armchair-- apparently the kid had wound up drinking after all. Jim would need to talk to him about that; he couldn’t afford any slip ups in regs right now. Quietly, he passed the couch where Bones was lying face down, giving his best attempt to suffocate himself in a cushion. Entering the kitchen, desperately hoping for a glass of water, he jumped as he realized Spock was sitting at the table. 

“Oh, geez,” he said, startled. “Sorry, didn’t know you were up.” 

“It is no trouble,” Spock replied, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others. “Is there something you need?” 

Jim swallowed heavily, trying to soothe his parched throat. “Just water.” 

Spock rose swiftly and filled a glass at the sink, passing it to Jim who thanked him and gulped at it slowly. He so did not want to puke in Spock’s house. 

Realizing that the adjacent room was suspiciously sans an engineer, he asked, “Where’s Scotty?” 

“Mr. Scott was called away early this morning for a consultation regarding the construction.” 

“Oof. I do not envy him,” Jim said, wincing in sympathy. 

“Indeed,” Spock agreed. 

Jim settled into a chair opposite Spock, aimlessly tracing patterns on the tabletop in a sudden fit of nerves. 

“Hey, Spock?” he said. Spock raised an eyebrow in response. “I want to visit Pike. Before we ship out.” 

Spock nodded. “I will comm you the location of his gravesite, if you wish.” 

“Actually,” Jim continued, clearing his throat. “I was wondering if you’d maybe go with me? You don’t have to, of course, but--”

Spock halted him with a quiet, “It would be my pleasure, Captain.” 

“Thank you, Spock.”

As they sat in companionable silence, Jim thought that of all the changes that had come from all of the drama of the last several months, his stronger friendship with Spock was a pretty damn good one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> Honestly, this chapter is pretty straight forward. If there's anything I can clarify, let me know in the comments. If not, then I hope you enjoyed!


	11. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and the crew take care of final preparations before shipping out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my eternal gratitude to ensanguind for their edits, suggestions, corrections, and unwavering patience.

Without the gentle hum of the engines and the whirring of systems around him, the ship felt overwhelming and unfamiliar. The usually bright hallways were dim with lack of light, and the usually warm surfaces of the console were cold and inactive.

Jim ran his hand along the back of the chair-- _his_ chair. The last time he’d been on board this ship, he’d never thought he’d see it again. He glanced around with a heavy sigh. He’d expected this to feel like coming home, but it just felt wrong.

He had been asked to him come tour the nearly completed construction and to sign off on different additions Scotty had been playing with during the last several months. It was informal; maybe that was why he felt so out of place. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been on board-- and conscious-- without wearing _some_ type of uniform.

Maybe it shouldn’t have felt as odd as it did. The ship had always felt like his; it made sense that when he died, she had died, too. They both had to be brought back to life.

Scotty was off wandering some other part of the ship, noting things that still needed seeing to. Jim had been left to his own devices for the time being, and had been excited for the chance to reacquaint himself with the _Enterprise_ after so long away. Thus far had managed to avoid any problems, but he was rapidly running out of areas to waste time in.

He’d have to face the warp core eventually.

He strolled over to the turbolift, stepping inside and leaned against the wall. He stayed there for a long moment looking through the open lift door, taking in the view of the wide bridge.

It was difficult to see her now without the ever-present crew. Without them, it just didn’t feel like home the way it usually did. He idly wondered at what point home had stopped being a place and started being people; that was a sentiment he hadn’t known for a long while.

With a final glance around, he sighed. It was time.

“Ok,” he said to himself, and closed the lift doors. Steeling his nerves, he pressed the trigger for the lower decks.

He could do this.

His body was on autopilot as he stepped onto the engineering deck. The passageways, darker and narrower than the rest of the ship, were devoid of the usual high energy of the officers and noise of working life. His footsteps echoed off the deck and bulkheads as he made his way through.

He knew this ship backwards and forwards. His feet carried him without his guidance. Soon he found himself staring at the low-set glass panels marked clearly with warnings of danger. The circular door beyond was closed, blocking his view of the hallway leading to the warp core itself, for which he was thankful. He stared blankly down at the patch of ground where he’d spent his final moments, standing where Spock had stood and feeling strangely detached.

He knew he should feel something but he just felt...empty. Resigned.

How did one face their own death after resurrection?

He had _died_ here.

He had lain upon the floor, panting and heaving desperate gasps for air as his cells irradiated and died, and his organs failed; and he--

He couldn’t do this.

“Ye should have told me you were coming down here, laddie,” Scotty’s voice to his left startled him from his trance.

* * *

 

Jim shifted, eyes darting to the man stood down the short corridor before returning to gape at the door once more. “Sorry,” he said offhandedly, not sure what else to offer.

“I have te say,” Scotty said softly, coming to stand beside Jim, “I don’t have much fondness for this room here. Not these days.”

Jim snorted a humorless laugh, a sad smile ghosting across his face. “That makes two of us,” he mumbled under his breath.

The two stood in silence for a moment, Jim barely repressing the tremors fighting their way through his hands as he folded his arms across his chest, Scotty forcing back memories.  

Scotty had never known he could feel so uncomfortable a room filled with so much incredible technology, and yet…

Tears stung his eyes as he remembered. Waking up strapped into a chair and realizing with a sickening jolt exactly what had happened. Knowing precisely where Jim would be and what he would find. Knowing hadn’t made _seeing_ it any easier. And hearing Jim’s weak voice beg him not to call McCoy, not to put his friend through that… it had broken Scotty’s heart.

Jim had been ready to die for them-- ready to die alone. Scotty hadn’t let him.  

Having to tell Spock that they couldn’t get to Jim, couldn’t save him-- that had been one of the hardest things Scotty had ever had to do.

Jim was fixated on that patch of floor where he had collapsed all those months ago, gaze distant. He shook ever so slightly, hands clutching tightly at his upper arms. Scotty had known this day would be difficult for them both, but he knew a building anxiety attack when he saw one; he was going prevent that from happening, if he could.

Steeling himself, he inhaled deeply, drawing Jim’s attention before he said, “I never properly thanked you, Jim-- for what you did.”

Jim balked, giving a small shake of the head as he said, “No, Scotty, please--” but Scotty wasn’t deterred.

“You got me off that God forsaken Delta Vega and onboard this beauty of a vessel.” He ran a hand lovingly along the support beams surrounding them. “You got me back te earth. You got me recommissioned--”

“You helped get me recommissioned, too,” Jim interrupted, but Scotty kept going.

“And you punched my lights out and saved the whole lot of us.”

Turning so he was facing Jim directly, needing to be sure his gratitude got through to the younger man, he choked out, “Never thought I’d be thankin’ a man for knocking me on my arse, but-- thank you, Jim.”

Jim swallowed hard. Scotty could tell he didn’t want to talk about this, but they had to. There was no way either of them would be able to successfully manage onboard if they couldn’t face what had happened there. Jim had worked hard and was dealing beautifully overall, but he hadn’t faced the reality of what had happened the way his crew and friends had.

And with sudden clarity, Scotty understood. Jim had been relatively stoic about everything, brushing off his own death like it was of no consequence; a temporary inconvenience that had been dealt with and moved past.

But _had_ he dealt with it? Had they?

Jim had mourned his losses-- Pike, the damage to his body, the trauma he’d endured. He’d mourned these things in the only way he knew how: by throwing himself into problem solving and finding solutions.

But for the people who loved him, there had been no solution during those first days. He was dead, and all they could do was grieve.

Scotty wasn’t quite sure Jim understood that they cared for him just as much as he did for them, or how profound the shock of losing him had been.  

Did he know how Spock had screamed, his Vulcan control breaking in his anguish at the loss of his friend? Or how Scotty had held Uhura, both of them shaking with their own tears as they watched the life drain from him, unable to stop it or offer comfort?

Did he know how McCoy had crumpled in defeat when he’d seen Jim’s body on the gurney?

Did he know how hard they had fought for him?

“Jim,” he began, but Jim cut him off.

“I’d do it again, Scotty,” he said quietly, conviction firm in his tone. “No hesitation.”

With a sigh, Scotty let the matter drop. Jim would talk about it when he was ready. Pushing him would get them nowhere.

Clasping Jim’s arm firmly, he said reassuringly, “And that is what makes you a hell of a captain, Sir-- and a good man.”

Jim laid his hand over Scotty’s own, grasping lightly at the fingers around his bicep. Scotty pulled him in for a hug, patting him firmly on the back.

“Thank you, Scotty,” Jim whispered as they pulled apart.  

“Anytime, laddie,” Scotty said lightly. “But, Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever pull a stunt like that again I’ll kick your scrawny ass from here te Glasgow.”

Jim smirked.

“Duly noted, Mr. Scott.”

* * *

Uhura had brought the idea to Len to throw Jim a birthday party. Len had wondered for about half a second how she had even known when it was before realizing that it was the day of the Kelvin memorial. To him, it was first and foremost the birthday of Jim Kirk, his best friend and roommate, and a day he took it upon himself to get the younger man slobbering drunk each year. To everyone else, it was the anniversary of one of the greatest tragedies in Starfleet history.

Jim _hated_ his birthday. He always had. He’d told Len once in a tipsy rant that the best birthday he’d ever had had been the first one at the academy, when he’d corralled Len into a bar crawl that had them both sick as dogs the next day. At the time, Len hadn’t even known why they were drinking. The worst had apparently wound up with Jim bruised and battered and his brother angry at him, his mother none the wiser as per usual.

Jim had matured a lot in the last few years, and had actually reached out to his mother to try to begin mending what they could of their strained relationship. His birthday was one of the days he always called her, now. His brother, Jim had admitted, was nowhere to be found. He had tried.

But his birthday wasn’t something for celebrating. It was a day to forget or to mourn;  that was all Jim knew.

Which was exactly why a party seemed like the perfect idea.

Forget Sam and Winona. The kid had a new family now. It was about damn time he realized it.

Jim was out of the apartment attending one last informal debriefing with Barnett to discuss some final preparations and parameters for their mission. The admiral was the only flag officer the _Enterprise_ had to answer to for her five year mission since Komack had “mysteriously” delegated command. Jim was sure to be gone for at least a few hours, which left ample time to prepare.

Jim wouldn’t like a big show of attention, Len knew that much, so a private gathering was their best option. Centring the party around food was also tiptoeing into dangerous territory, so he suggested the activity be more socially based, and not centered around a mealtime. Thus, he and Uhura had agreed upon a casual night in with drinks and snacks. He had offered up their apartment and everyone had enthusiastically agreed.

That was how he found himself hiding behind the armchair like an idiot for Jim Kirk’s second ever surprise party and first ever birthday party.

“How the hell did I let you talk me into this?” he grumbled under his breath amidst the breathless laughter surrounding him.

“ _Shh!_ ” Chekov hushed, “He is coming!”

Sure enough, footsteps were approaching in the hallway outside the door, and Len begrudgingly quieted down. The door opened, and Jim stopped abruptly in the entryway, clearly surprised that it was so dark.

“Lights, 100 percent,” he called, toeing off his shoes.

Show time.

“Surprise!”

Jim startled violently, jumping about a foot in the air and knocking over the shoe-rack.

“God!” he exclaimed in frustration. “You have _got_ to stop doing that! Are you guys trying to give me a heart attack?” Jim asked, pinching the bridge of his nose as he fought to calm his racing heart.

Spock stepped forward from behind the couch. “Certainly not. It would be contrary to our best interests to incapacitate our Captain so close to our departure date.”

Len rolled his eyes. If Spock was joking, it wasn’t his strong suit. Jim, on the other hand, was chuckling like an idiot, shoulders hitching in amusement. Pair of weirdos, the both of them.

Jim continued, nonchalant, as he righted the shoe rack. “Ok, then-- just an idea, but-- maybe _stop_ breaking into my house and jumping out at me when I come home?”

“Doesn’t count as breaking in if I _let_ them in. I live here, too, you know,” Len grumbled.

“Ok, _yes,_ Bones, I’m aware, but the point remains--”

“Save it, Kirk,” Uhura cut him off, making her way forward and forcing a party hat onto Jim’s head, snapping the string under his chin. “We’re not here to discuss your privacy, we’re here to party!”  

“Ok, ok-- _ow.”_ He conceded, rubbed gingerly at his chin. “So… what’re we celebrating?”

“You, you idiot,” Len said, speaking before anyone else could.

“What-- did I do?” he asked warily.

“You have a birthday, nyet?” Chekov asked happily.

“Oh,” Jim said, blinking in surprise. Jim met Len’s eyes, looking for the briefest moment resigned and the slightest bit panicked. It faded just as quickly into genuine shock.  “I guess.”

“And therefore,” Sulu said, dramatically donning a party hat of his own as Scotty quickly went into the kitchen. “We have to celebrate. Our mission is simple--”

“Total inebriation!” Scotty finished with a devious grin, returning with several bottles clinking between his fingers. He passed one to Jim, who accepted it with a nod of thanks, clanking it against the Scot’s own bottle before he hasted to distribute drinks to the rest of them.

“Chekov, that had better be non-alcoholic,” Jim called suspiciously.

“Da, Keptin. A club soda,” the ensign replied, forcing his own party had over his wildly curly hair.

Once each of them had a drink in their hand, and Jim had made his way into the group instead of standing separately in the doorway, Sulu called: “A toast!” They each raised their bottles. “To the Captain!”

“To Kirk!” Uhura amended, smiling gently.

“To Jim,” Len insisted, with a nod to the man himself. Jim looked wildly uncomfortable, but tolerated the attention admirably.

“Thank you,” Jim said sincerely, shifting his weight awkwardly, “for this. I don’t typically do the whole birthday thing-- but thank you.”

Len stepped forward, knowing that Jim needed a break from the seriousness of the moment, slinging an arm around his neck and dragging him forward towards an armchair.

“Twenty seven years old,” he drawled. “And heading into space for five years. It’s like you seek trouble out, kid.”

“What can I say,” Jim said airily, flopping down agreeably as Len gently shoved him into the chair. “I live on the edge, Bones.”

“And that is why,” Uhura continued, “we have created a set of rules to ensure your prolonged safety.” Len wasn’t about to point out that they had formed no such list. With a pointed look, Uhura finished, “Rule number one: don’t flirt with anyone, or anything, that can kick your ass.”

Jim gaped at her. “I’m really not as big a flirt as everyone seems to think I am,” he said good naturedly, but Sulu barreled right over him.

“Rule number two: no jumping from heights higher than-- what did we agree, Doctor McCoy, six feet?”

Jim threw a glare Len’s way. “‘What did you _agree?’”_ he repeated incredulously.

Len nodded contemplatively. “Six feet sounds right. Rule number three: no eating anything if you don’t know what’s in it-- and that includes plants, Jim.”

“That was _one_ time!” Jim laughed, resigned to the teasing.

Scotty broke in from the corner with, “Rule number four: no mucking about in engineering without supervision!”

“Ok, hold on,” Jim cried, “I do actually know what I’m doing, you know, I minored in--”

“Rule number five!” Chekov called enthusiastically. “No working triple shifts!”

They all murmured agreeingly as Jim scoffed.

“This _has_ to be mutiny, Spock, help me out here!”

Spock turned to look at Jim, expression carefully blank. “Forgive me, captain. We are not on duty-- as such, no regulations have been broken.”

Jim shook his head in disbelief. “Traitors, all of you.”

“Speaking of traitors,” Sulu said, “rule six: no one-on-one interaction with traitors and dangerous criminals.”

“Ok, in my defense--”

“Rule seven--”

“Oh, come _on!”_ Jim whined in exasperation.

Despite Jim’s half hearted protests, the banter continued. The rules got more and more absurd the longer the list got, and eventually were given up on altogether as Sulu and Scotty drunkenly persuaded Jim to swear to do his best not to “do it again”. Everyone carefully avoided any direct references to the warp core. All the same, Len spent the majority of the evening watching Jim for any true signs of distress, but his smile stayed put throughout the night.

Despite all the heckling, mothering, and scolding, Len was pretty sure it was the best birthday the kid had ever had.

* * *

 

The late January air was dry and cold, and bit uncomfortably at Spock’s ears as he approached Jim’s building. With a mere 17 days until the _Enterprise_ was due to depart, each of the crew members was spending their remaining ground time taking care of last minute tasks and preparations. He had not forgotten Jim’s request to accompany him to Pike’s grave, however, with the holiday season and other matters drawing their attention, they had as of yet found little success in selecting a day. Finally, it seemed, their schedules were compatible and open; today was the day.

Spock sighed, tension leaving him as he entered the heated foyer, his body no longer braced against the cold. Choosing the stairs rather than the lift, he made his way to the top floor, and he knocked on the now familiar door of Jim’s apartment.

 _“One second!”_ Jim called from within, the pounding of footsteps signalling his approach. Spock waited patiently in the hallway until the door opened to reveal the captain, still forcing an arm into the sleeve of his coat. “Hey, Spock-- thanks again for coming with me, it means a lot.”

Spock nodded. “It is no trouble, Jim.”

“What’s it like out there?” Jim asked, zipping up the front of the jacket.

“It is unusually cold for this region,” Spock replied, with the barest hint of displeasure; tugging at his own coat to remove the wrinkles and folds his trek up the stairs had caused.

Jim nodded understandingly. “Yeah, I figured as much, it’s been pretty nippy the past few weeks. Here, hold on a second--” he trailed off as he quickly returned to his room. He was back a mere moment later, tossing something to Spock as he tugged on his shoes. Spock caught it deftly, turning it over in his hands.

“A hat?” he questioned, rubbing a thumb over the soft material. Jim laughed softly.

“A beanie. I thought it would keep your ears warm.”

Spock  pulled the cap gingerly over his head. “Thank you, Jim. That is most considerate of you.”

Jim shrugged dismissively, stepping into the hallway. “No problem. Ready?”

Together, they began their journey.

They maintained companionable silence during the shuttle ride to the cemetery a few miles outside the city limits, though Spock could see Jim’s anxiety visibly increasing the closer they got. He fidgeted uncomfortably, his leg bouncing with nerves as he rubbed his palms together.

Spock studiously ignored his behavior in favor of letting Jim feel without restraint; he had a suspicion that, should he say something or bring attention to his fidgeting, Jim would become uncomfortable and closed off, which would do him no good in the long run. He needed to grieve properly and to say goodbye to his mentor and friend; Spock would help where he could, in that.

When they arrived, Spock led the way remembering the location from the memorial service nearly a year ago, Jim trailing behind him slowly. Spock could sense his reluctance; hoping to give Jim some space, he kept his eyes trained on the path ahead. When they were in sight of the grave, he halted, stepping to the side to ensure that Jim wouldn’t walk into him in his distracted state.

Jim’s eyes landed on the gravestone, and he swallowed heavily, his adam’s apple bobbing harshly. Shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders climbing up towards his ears as he tensed, he scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Can I--?” he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the grave.

Spock nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. “Take all the time you require, Jim. I will be here.”

* * *

Spock’s presence was reassuring in a way. As Jim shuffled closer to the gravestone, a heavy weight settled in his chest, dragging him down. Truth be told, he had been dreading this moment for weeks. He knew he had to face it eventually-- if he didn’t, he was sure he’d regret it forever. He’d already missed saying goodbye and the memorial; he couldn’t miss the chance to pay his respects before shipping out.

His shoes squished in the muddy earth as he made his way forward. All too soon for his tastes he found himself standing before the gravestone, taking in the inscription.

_Admiral Christopher Pike_

_ADMIRAL, UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS_

 

_“Respected officer. Beloved friend.”_

_28 years active duty_

_2213-2259_

  
Understatement of the year.

Pike was so much more than could ever be fit onto a tombstone; so much more than those two short statements. He was a good man, strong and proud, civil and fair with an immense respect for those who deserved it and a fierce protectiveness for those he took under his wing.

Jim hadn’t appreciated his support when he had it; he’d taken it for granted like a fool.

Jim felt his throat tightening with tears fighting to be shed. God, he didn’t want to cry. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to help it; it had been a long time since Jim had truly mourned, but his body seemed to react without him to these situations. He could handle physical pain; he’d handled more than his fair share of beatings and blowups, tumbles and breaks, but this? This genuine sorrow for the loss of a dear friend-- he hadn’t felt in years. The closest he had come in the last decade had probably been in the aftermath of the _Narada_ , but so much of that had been Ambassador Spock’s grief transferred to him through a the mind meld, he wasn’t really sure it counted.

He’d done plenty of mourning these last several months though, that was for sure. Keeping his hurt bottled up inside hadn’t done him any good, but it was all he had known, before. He’d never had anyone to support him through his grief. Now he had Bones, and Spock, and a whole slew of other people who had been nothing but supportive and helpful, standing by him throughout the entire ordeal of the last year whether he deserved it or not. The level of trust he now had for them, and the trust they put on him was terrifying.

What if he fucked it up again?

Pike had said it, just before his death: Jim had been reckless, calling the shots with no respect for his position, putting their lives in danger, playing God-- he’d almost gotten them all killed. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, and he’d do his damndest to make sure he never made that mistake again. He’d matured significantly in that regard.

But he’d never gotten the chance to prove himself to Pike. He never would.

That was the part he couldn’t get past-- the regret.

Regret for the doubts he had put into Pike’s head. Regret for not living up to his expectations. Regret for not being able to say goodbye.

He stared down at the grassy mound uneasily, uncertain of the proper protocol. He’d never been to a gravesite before. His father didn’t have one, aside from the flashy memorials in his hometown and at headquarters, and Jim avoided those like the plague. He’d never been able to track down the families of his kids, no matter how hard he’d tried, and it wasn’t like he’d want to reopen those wounds, anyway. This was a new experience for him, and he was entirely out of his depth.

People talked, he knew, when they visited graves. Honestly, he didn’t see the point. Talking to the dead had never been something Jim had bothered with. He didn’t see a reason to start now.

He ran two fingers over the smooth surface of the carved stone, eyes stinging as a single tear spilled over. With a disgusted scoff, he flicked it away.

This was stupid. He shouldn’t have come here. What good did it do? He had mourned as best as he knew how; he’d spent hours over the last several months talking through his thoughts on Pike’s death with Bones, and while he’d probably never quite lose the feeling that there was a hole in his chest and nothing would ever be truly alright again, he was dealing. Apparently that was how grief worked when life wasn’t a constant battle for survival: you vented, you cried, you moved on. But this? All he was managing to achieve was to upset himself and reawaken a whole lot of self doubt and regret, the last thing he needed mere weeks before he was supposed to resume command officially.

The soft sound of Spock’s footsteps alerted him that the Vulcan was moving closer; he appreciated the deliberate audibility of it. Spock could have moved silently if he wanted to, Jim knew that much.

Sniffing quietly, Jim glanced at Spock, nodding in acknowledgement of his arrival. Spock turned his own gaze to the tombstone, pressing his own fingertips to the top for a brief moment.

“He was truly an extraordinary officer,” Spock said quietly, clasping his hands behind his back and keeping his eyes forward, giving Jim at least some semblance of privacy.

Jim’s lips quirked slightly. “He was a good man,” he responded.

Spock hummed in agreement. “A quality you share.”

Jim huffed a disapproving laugh. “He was a better man that I’ll ever be.”

Spock was silent for a long moment.

“The admiral and I often discussed both private and personal matters, during the period in which I served as his first officer. After you decided to enroll in the Academy, many such conversations revolved around you.”

Jim tilted his head in confusion. “Me?”

“Indeed,” Spock continued. “From the beginning, he had the highest of hopes for your success. He expressed pride in you, and your accomplishments.”

Jim sighed, hanging his head. “I just-- hate that I let him down, Spock,” he admitted reluctantly. “I disappointed him--”

“I assure you, you did not,” Spock insisted.

“During that last meeting before” he caught himself, clarifying, “-- when we got hauled into his office after Nibiru? He said I wasn’t ready for the chair. He said I didn’t respect it. I never got to prove to him--” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“He selected you as his first officer for a reason, Jim. He knew that his trust was not misplaced. It is true, at times you show little regard for regulations when you believe you have found an alternative-- and more preferable-- solution. But your respect and compassion for those around you is unquestionable. You inspire loyalty from those in your command by giving it freely yourself, in much the same way Admiral Pike did. It was an honor to serve under him,” he turned to face Jim. “And it is an honor to serve under you.”

After several long moments of silence, Jim admitted, “I’m scared, Spock,” unintentionally echoing his words from the warp core, something that was not lost on either of them. “What if I can’t handle it? What if--”

“You have already proven yourself more than capable-- and more than worthy-- of your position, Jim. You gave your life for mine, and for those of the crew; it is no ordinary man who would do such a thing. The future may hold many outcomes, yet; life is full of uncertainties. But it does not do to dwell on them; it is in moving forward, despite the risk, that we find strength. My mother taught me that.”

They stood at the site for a while longer, respectfully silent and contemplative, and Jim had to admit he felt better for it.

Pike was gone. There was nothing he could do to change that, as much as he might wish it. But Pike had believed in him, according to Spock, right up until the end.

If people like Pike and Spock had faith in him, maybe he wasn’t doing too badly after all.  

Shivering as a breeze blew past, he softly said, “Thank you, Spock,”  hoping the simple words would convey everything he meant to the stoic officer beside him: his gratitude for his encouragement, faith, trust, loyalty, and friendship. “For everything.”

Spock hesitated only briefly. “ _You_ gave everything, my friend. It is a debt I do not know how to repay. I have merely conveyed a simple truth: you are, and ever shall remain, a great captain.” He paused, amending, “A great man. Have faith in yourself as others do, Jim.”

Jim nodded thoughtfully, taking in what Spock was saying.

His crew believed in him. It was all at once inspiring and terrifying. For the first time in years, he had people he cared about who cared about him in return; people to share in his struggles and his triumphs. He’d proven his worth to them, and they had more than returned the favor.

Jim wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such people in his life, but he was damn thankful for it. He’d spent his entire life hearing that he was good for nothing, worthless, stupid and brash with an authority problem. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to hearing the other side of things; he wasn’t sure he’d ever fully believe it.

But with his crew reassuring him at every turn, he could sure as hell try. He was going to spend the next five years with them, after all.

The thought had him smiling stupidly, even as he blinked back the moisture in his eyes.

Five years with his crew.

Five years with people who respected him and trusted him, and who he valued equally in turn. People who cared enough about him to sit at his bedside for months. Who helped him get back on his feet in every way possible-- the ones who stuck their necks out on the line for him, just like he would always do for them.

Five years with the people who had become his family.  

Now that was something he could get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts About the Chapter: 
> 
> We've come full circle. The last fic began the second week of March 2259. This chapter takes place during January 2260. What a whirlwind it's been. 
> 
> There will be an epilogue posted after this. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	12. Epilogue: February 2260

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The five year mission begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you to ensanguind for reading and editing.

Len wasn’t one for hats, typically, but he was sure glad for the brim of his as it shielded his eyes from the bright sun. The ‘Fleet seemed to always make sure to line everyone up facing just the wrong angle so that the full force of the sun was right in everyone’s eyes. At least he wasn’t alone in looking like an absolute idiot-- squinting and tugging at the hem of their boxy full dress jackets. Everyone around him was wearing the same, all looking equally uncomfortable.

All except for one. Cue Jim Kirk-- the only officer in the fleet who managed to look half decent.

Len half listened as Barnett rambled on about “Starfleet’s finest” and “uncharted territory” and “the best ship in the fleet”. These ceremonies lasted way too damn long. But then Barnett was announcing their “fine young captain”, and amidst the polite applause as Jim nodded, the _Enterprise_ crew-- save Spock-- erupted in whistles and hoots that they probably would have been written up for if their captain didn’t also happen to be a bit of a rule breaker. As it was, Barnett just shook his head in bafflement and despair as Jim fought to keep a straight face. Len could tell it was a losing battle.

The kid was in fine form, standing at attention on stage beside the admiralty as the rechristening ceremony commenced, all broad shoulders and golden hair and easygoing smirk. When Jim needed to, he played the part perfectly. Wedged between Chandra and Archer-- Komack standing one man away from him trying his best not to looked thoroughly pissed off during such a press heavy event-- Jim looked like he belonged.

They’d come a long way.

Jim stepped forward when addressed, saluted Barnett, and made his way to the podium, removing his hat and and looked out at the crowd, the picture of poise and confidence.

It was about damn time.

* * *

As the admirals seated themselves, Jim took a moment, setting down his hat and bowing his head slightly. This was it. Once he was done with his speech, they were shipping out. He was going _home_. Five years with his crew in unexplored space. He began.

“There will always be those who mean to do us harm.”

The admiralty shifted uncertainly behind him; he was sure that it didn’t exactly sound like the confident, “we stand strong” talk they had asked for when they’d approached him a week before-- but damn if it didn’t have everyone’s attention. Good. Maybe they’d listen.  

“To stop them” Jim continued, curling his fingers around the edges of the podium as he surveyed his audience, “we risk awakening the same evil within ourselves. Our first instinct is to seek revenge when those we love are taken from us.”

_He had allied with Marcus and chased down Harrison. Spock had lost control and run Khan down. Bones had broken every code of ethics he knew to bring Jim back._

Seeking out his crew, he met their eyes steadily as he paused.

“But that’s not who we are,” he said with a soft smile.

_We are loyal. We are strong. We are united._

Shifting slightly, he crossed his hands against the lucite surface at his waist.

“We are here today to rechristen the _USS Enterprise_ and to honor those who lost their lives--” his breath hitched and he paused. _Shit_. “--nearly one year ago.”

In the seats, Uhura smiled encouragingly at him as Spock bowed his head and Bones nodded in acknowledgement to those lost.  With a deep breath, he continued.

“When Christopher Pike first gave me his ship--” Behind him, Komack sputtered indignantly at the lack of title, as if he suddenly gave a damn about decorum and propriety. Jim ignored him. “--he had me recite the captain’s oath. Words… I didn’t appreciate at the time.”

_I know you better than you think I do._

_I believe in you._

_It’s gonna be ok._

“Now, I see them as a call for us to remember who we once were-- and who we must be again. Those words? Space: the final frontier...”

* * *

 “Keptin on ze bridge!”

Who knew those four little words could have one of the most highly decorated crews in the ‘fleet grinning like idiots at their posts?

Following Jim’s speech, the crew had immediately boarded the shuttles that would take them to the space dock, donning their uniforms before they set about doing final preparations. Once onboard, Jim had retreated to his own quarters-- desperate to get out of the boxy grey uniform and into his command gold again-- for a moment of privacy before making his way to the bridge. The console was lit and whirring, the seats filled with his friends and crew bustling about their tasks. This was more like it.

He smiled at Chekov’s proclamation-- man, it felt good to hear that again-- and turned to his chair only to find that someone was already sitting in it.

Smirking, he made his way over, calling, “It’s hard to get out of it once you’ve had a taste. Isn’t that right, Mr. Sulu?” with a wink.

Sulu immediately vacated the seat for him with a broad smirk of his own. “Captain _does_ have a nice ring to it.”

With a breathy laugh, Jim ran his hand lovingly across the chair back.

“Chair’s all your, sir,” Sulu smiled, making his way back to his post at the helm.

Punching in the signal for engineering on the arm of the chair, Jim crowed, “Mr. Scott! How’s our core?”

The reply came instantly, the Scot’s enthusiasm clear in his tone as he said, “Purring like a kitten, Captain. She’s ready for a long journey.”

“Excellent,” Jim replied, stepping away from the chair and towards the right hand side of the bridge. As he passed Bones, pouting and grumbling, he clapped him on the arm. “C’mon, Bones. It’s gonna be _fun!”_

He heard the doctor’s disgruntled murmurings behind him as he continued on.

“Lieutenant Uhura,” he said, resting a hand on the corner of her chair and leaning down to observe the controls. “All frequencies operational?”

“Aye, Captain,” she responded. “Operational and open for communication.”

“Perfect.” Turning on his heel, he took the final steps towards Spock’s station. “And Mr. Spock. How are our sensors?”

Spock rose, turning to face him as he clasped his hands behind his back. “All systems seem to be functioning properly, Captain. We are ready to depart on your command, Sir.”

“Very good, Commander.” Together, they made their way back to the center of the bridge, taking in the vast expanse of the stars all around them. “Where should we go?” he asked quietly.

“As a mission of this duration has never been attempted,” Spock turned to Jim, a small but honest-to-god _smile_ on his face, “I defer to your good judgement, Captain.”

Jim’s answering smile was brilliant.

Settling into his chair, Jim took a final glance around at his crew.

His family.

His home.

“Mr. Sulu,” he said, pressing a button on his own console to alert the crew of their imminent launch. “Take us out.”

“Aye, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes my NaNoWriMo 2017 contribution. 
> 
> This fic challenged me, frustrated me, moved me, and made me a better writer. Your comments and feedback have meant the world to me. 
> 
> One final shoutout to ensanguind, without whom I honestly couldn't have done this. 
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this journey. I certainly have. 
> 
> Live long and prosper.


End file.
